A Light in the Dark
by thatweirdtheatrekid
Summary: Told in alternating Erik and Gustave's point of view. It starts a month after Christine's death and Erik and his son are having to deal with the death of someone they love and their gain of each other
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I paced back and forth and ran my fingers up and down the piano. The wretched sound made my ears bleed, but what was the point in music if I didn't have my Christine to sing it, but then I saw Gustave sitting in the corner. He was playing with the music box I made for him when he first came with his mother just a month ago. I didn't have much light in my dwelling besides the few candles on my desk and the arrangement on my piano. Gustave didn't think I could see him if sat in the shadows, but I had lived so long in the dark that I could see what I needed to including the teary eyes of my little Gustave as he watched the clown's hands clap as the music danced across the room.

Gustave looked up at me suddenly and tried to wipe away his tears quickly, but I heard the sound of his running nose that he tried to stifle. I took my mask off of the piano and slid it back over the horrid being that was my face. Although Gustave did not want to admit it, I knew that when I didn't wear the mask, it still scared him just a bit. I strolled over to where Gustave was sitting and sat down beside him. I didn't know what to say to him, but as it turned out, I didn't have to. Gustave wrapped his little arms around my right arm and buried his face in my coat. As much as I had never seen myself as a father figure, Gustave didn't mind. All he really wanted was for someone to be there for him, and it was not as if I was ever demanded to be anywhere important. He was so much like Christine yet so much like me. He had my straight brown hair and blue eyes, but he had Christine's voice and her tender touch.

Her voice…

It haunted me. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see her flowing gown rustle as she sang, but then I heard the shot and remembered her scream.

I had closed my eyes once more, and there it was again. I opened my eyes with a start and could feel them burning with tears. Gustave buried his face even tighter in my sleeve, and I rested my head on his back and wept with him. I tried not to cry in front of him. I felt as if he needed someone strong, but the truth of the matter was, through everything from my magical lasso to my last gamble with Raoul, I was not a strong man. I acted that way, but I had murdered out of rage and gambled out of fear. Rage and fear were two qualities not found in a strong man.

Gustave took the handkerchief out of my front pocket, and he dried his eyes. I sat up and stroked his hair. He looked at me with his big blue eyes and said, "Papa?"

Papa… He hadn't openly called me by a title since he had lived here. Granted, it had only been three weeks and I knew the boy needed his space, but the title almost made me want to shed tears of joy. He was such a beautiful child.

"Papa?" he repeated.

"Yes, my son?"

"May I ask of you a favor?"

"Anything you wish, Gustave."

"Papa," Gustave muttered, "Mother used to sing to me when I was upset."

There was a moment of silence as I stared at him too stunned to know what to do.

Gustave sniffled and said, "Could you sing to me? Like Mother used to?"

My eyes started burning again. I didn't want to sing. Since the loss of Christine, I had no reason to sing, but the candlelight that hit his pleading eyes pulled the song right out of me just like Christine's eyes did. I sang the chorus to "Love Never Dies," and Gustave's crying ceased. I got up off of the floor. My legs were growing stiffer day by day. I reached my hand down and helped Gustave up off of the floor. I knelt down to look him in the eye.

"Would you like to spend tomorrow just the two of us?" Gustave looked at me with uncertainty. "I could finish paying the bills tonight, and we can spend the day in the park just you and me." The truth was, I didn't know where this statement came from. I despised going out into the park. The people pointed and asked if I was Mr. Y, but I would do anything for my Gustave. He was sad. I wasn't going to let him spend the rest of his life in the dark even if that was how I chose to live my life.

"I will admit that I would like that very much," Gustave said timidly as he was trying to avoid my eyes.

"Then that is what we will do!" I kissed him on top of the head and sent him to bed. I sat down at my desk to pay the bills. Many of them were to be sent back with tear stains as many of them seemed to have ended up in those days. Though Phantasma was doing well in those days, I still cried as I repeated in my head over and over again, "Papa…"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 My father was not a simple man. The more complexities he had in life, the more it showed in his music. Melodies that were beautiful and symphonic came when he was happy, but as soon as the "cheap vaudeville trash" (as Madame Giry called it) started coming, everyone that heard knew that he was in a bad mood.

I found it an issue in that first month to call him father. The simple fact was that I didn't know much about him. I knew what the rumors said. When I went exploring around the island, the crowd always muttered words of his strange mask and his accusations of being a murderer in France. Many said that he killed my mother, and every time I heard it, I would clench my fists tight ready to swing if they dared to say anything to me.

I didn't care much for roaming around the park. It was the places the crowd couldn't go or feared to tread that fascinated me, but I really told my father that I would spend the day with him so I could get to know him more. I will not hide the idea that I feared him. I did, but there was something about him that seemed almost down to earth. I knew my mother loved this strange yet beautiful man for some reason, and I was determined to know why.

He played a song over and over all night long. The lullaby caused me to drift off to sleep, but from time to time, I'd wake in the middle of the night to hear the same chords I had heard when I had fallen asleep just moments before. I recognized the tune. My mother used to hum it around the house when the man I thought to be my father, the Vicomte De Chagny, was not home. I did not know where she heard the song, but it always entranced me. It was almost as if every time she sang it, I felt as if there was no point in doing what I was doing. I felt that I should just drop everything and hear her sing. I knew as soon as my father's fingers hit the keys that he had composed the song. It was almost as if he knew the song better than he knew himself. It was beautiful the way he played.

The next morning, I stumbled out of bed and hobbled to the next room where my father kept his piano. Alarm clocks were a necessity for me because night or day, it was always dark in the lair. He had finally stopped playing, but he was not asleep. His head was rested on the keys, but his icy blue eyes were bright and alert. He sat up when he saw me and pulled me up onto the piano stool beside him.

"It looks like your pajamas are getting too small for you, my boy!" he observed. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. I had seen my father go a month without sleeping- at least not that I saw, and he almost never ate. I believe that he only saw his music as a necessity to life and really nothing else.

"Yes, it seems that they are," I replied.

He got up from the stool and commanded that I stayed there. He went into his room in which, I was not allowed into, and came back with some of his own button up shirts. "Here," he said, "I don't wear these any more. You are welcome to them." He set the shirts in my lap and went back to his room.

I heard water running through the pipes. I took a set of candles off of the piano and brought them over to the stove to fix myself some breakfast. I got a piece of ham out of the new ice box and fried it in a skillet which was a good enough breakfast in my opinion. Eating breakfast was more of a habit for me than a necessity, but my mother always made me eat. I couldn't bear to not eat just because she used to tell me to. In all of about ten minutes, my father came from his room in what he referred to his, "casual tux," and one of his unusual capes and, of course, his signature white mask. He always looked like a magician of some sort. He never wore anything but tuxes. Only once had I seen him without a full tuxedo on, and even then, he had the pants and accessories on. His jacket was just constricting him of playing the organ in his grand theatre, so he ripped it off and pulled his suspenders off of his shoulders. He stood there watching me as I finished my last bite. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and looked up at him.

"I believe if we are to spend a day in my park, you should probably change into something more suitable for playing in," he said in an impatient yet nurturing tone.

"Yes, Papa," I replied. I swiftly made a turn to my room. I pulled a pair of knickers out of the top drawer and pulled a white button up top with a red bowtie and black suspenders. I looked in the half-lighted mirror that covered the entire right side of my face to make sure my cap and tie were fixed in perfect alignment. My father was very picky, and I did not want to upset him. When everything was adjusted to my liking, I came out of the room to find my father in the exact same place as he was before, but this time he was smiling in his own proud way.

"Are you ready…my…my son?" There was a reluctance to finish his sentence almost as if it were difficult to say. I imagined it was. It was difficult for me to call him papa, but I had to accept that this was my new way of life.

"Yes, Papa," I replied, "I am very happy to spend the day with you." With that, he wrapped his caped arm around my shoulders and we were off.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I had no idea what to do with the boy. Going out into the park made me hands shake with nerves. I knew Gustave would have to learn about my past at some point, but I didn't want today to be the day. I did not approve of his going out into the park on his own in the first place, but I knew the boy was you and was raised in the light. He needed the light and the fresh air unlike me who mostly dwelled under the ground where no one cared to come to disturb me. That was who I was born to be, and that was what I preferred to be- in the dark where I could not be disturbed.

As we went up the stairs and escaped into the light, I gripped Gustave's hand as tightly as I could. I had an irrational fear of losing him after the incident with Meg that night. It did not even occur to me that I might be hurting the boy until he started trying to squirm his way out of my hand. I loosened my grip and decided to act as if nothing had happened, and we climbed to the top of the stairs that led to the backstage in my music hall. A group of dancers were giggling at each other until one of them caught sight of me. I nodded to them and continued on with Gustave in tow behind me. They continued their conversation as we walked away.

Within seconds of exiting the theatre, the stares began to start. Some smiled and waved at me while a few mothers hid their children behind them. I decided that it was best to hold my ground. I did not smile, but I did not scowl. I simply looked at them as I walked by. It was not a gesture to be rude, but I did not prefer the company of people for most human beings were intolerable organisms that simply roamed the earth for their own benefit. Can I deny that at one point even I was one of these beings? No. I cannot, but then I learned to love. Oh how I missed Christine that day. Gustave was so much his mother it made me heart sick.

We rode the Ferris wheel, and for the first time ever, I went to one of my own shows. I assured Meg that she did wonderfully, and she beamed with pride.

I found out that his favorite thing to do in the entire park was to climb a top of my theatre and watch the people. My limbs that were growing stiff tried to stifle my attempt to climb, but I managed to make my way up to my son. Gustave sat there eating his ice cream and telling me every little thing he noticed about the people roaming my park. Some were sad such as an older man sitting on the bench with a rose that most likely did not belong to him, yet, some were rather amusing such as a woman that looked to be in a higher class scolded her young son for trying to eat candy off of the pavement.

Gustave was like me in the sense that he understood everything about a person just by watching their actions. I thought about my time in the opera house. I knew the business men without saying much to them. I knew the Vicomte just by the way he talked to Christine that night in her dressing room. The thought made anger swell up in my veins. That fool for treating every soul the way he did including my son.

"Papa," I heard Gustave mutter under his breath.

"Yes, Gustave?"

"Why do they call you that?"

"Call me what, Gustave?"

"The phantom. They call you the phantom."

"Yes, my Gustave. They do."

"Why, Papa?"

"Well, my son-"I thought about what I was going to say for what seemed like a very long time. I could not deny an answer. He would have to know eventually. I felt as if Gustave should know how I knew his mother and where she and I both came from. As far as I was concerned, all of this was hidden from Gustave. He knew his mother used to work for the opera house in Paris, but outside of that, very much was hidden from him. "I was once the Phantom of the Opera."

"The Phantom of the Opera?"

"Yes, my son," I could tell he was confused. I did not know how to tell the story. I did not want Gustave thinking of his father as a criminal or a terrorist of someone's self worth, but then I remembered one of the books off of my shelf that he liked to read. "Do you know the book from off of my shelf that you like to read so much?"

"Yes. The one about the long haired princess, I remember."

"Do you understand that the prince fell in love with the princess's voice so he did a crazy thing and climbed up her tower every day?" He nodded. "Gustave, my love for your mother and her voice made me do things that were not exactly in the manner of a gentleman."

"What do you mean?" he replied.

"Well, when I heard your mother sing, I used to try to teach her how and make her even better."

"What's not gentleman like about that?"

"Well, Gustave, I did not show my face to her nor tell her who I was. I deceived her. I made her believe that I was something else. She thought I was an angel."

"She thought you were her angel of music."

"Yes, my son and –"before I could finish my statement, Gustave replied.

"But you were her angel," Gustave started tearing up, "She told me herself that when she was gone that the angel of music would watch over me. My mother is gone, and I have you. You were my mother's angel, and now you are mine." Gustave's eyes were filled with tears now. "You are an angel! You are my guardian! You can't be deceptive!" I took Gustave in my arms. He rested his head in my lap and cried.

"That's enough for today, my son. I will tell you the whole story tomorrow." With that, Gustave clung to my waist and hid under my cape the entire way to the lair, and in that moment, I was glad to be his angel.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I had nightmares that night. I dreamed that I was back on that pier where my mother had died. I dreamed of Miss Giry's wild eyes as she dragged me towards the water. I woke with a start.

"Papa!" I forced myself to scream. Within seconds my papa was at the door of my room with an arrangement of candles. He still had every part of his suit on except the jacket and cape.

"Gustave, it is alright. Go back to sleep," he replied with his stern tone.

He turned to leave, but I had to stop him. I normally wasn't scared of the dark, after all, we pretty much lived in it, but tonight, I was terrified to sit in the dark alone. "Papa?"

He turned back to face me. "Yes, my Gustave?"

"Could you finish that story you were telling me earlier this afternoon?"

"I told you that I would tell you tomorrow!" my father snapped.

I jumped under the blankets when he snapped. I had never heard him do that before. "Papa, please?"

"Not now, my son," he said in a calmer tone.

"Then could you at least stay here for the night?" I saw his rather nervous expression upon his face. "Please, Papa. I'm scared."

With that, he blew out the candles. At first I thought he left, but then I heard his footsteps right beside my bed. I could hear him slip off his shoes. He sat on the edge of my bed and pulled off his mask. He sunk the right side, the deformed side, of his face in the pillow. I snuggled back under the covers. He cautiously put his arm around me and pulled me close in a protective grip. I knew I was safe then. His arms were so strong. I twisted myself around and buried my face in his chest and smelled the heavy sent of the cologne he wore. He stroked my hair until I fell asleep.

I can't remember a night that I or, as far as I know, my father slept more soundly.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 Erik's POV

I had not slept soundly in a month. I kept myself up at night paying bills and worrying about Gustave, but that night I slept so soundly, I don't believe that the end of the world would have woken me.

Once I fell asleep, I stayed asleep, but before, I kept myself up thinking about that night. I remembered the rush of Christine's voice as she sang my song. Then, I felt the panic we both had when we could not find Gustave in the crowd. I pictured it all so vividly.

I saw Gustave on the pier with Meg. Meg was just about to jump with Gustave wrapped in her arms when I caught her by the shoulder. Gustave ran to Christine in a panic. Meg put the gun to her head and stood on the edge of the pier. She told me what she had done for me as far as my park was concerned. It occurred to me that I had never even heard about all of what she did for me. I remember the exact words I said to Meg: "Meg please give me the gun. I know you feel that I've used you and neglected you. I too have felt this way before. Please, Meg, blame all of that feeling on me. No one wants to see you like this, Meg. I know the world is mean, Meg, but, just like I see the beauty underneath in the world, I see the beauty underneath this, Meg. We all can't be perfectly crafted like Christine."

That's where I messed up. Meg lost her temper and her control of the gun. That's when the shot rang out, and I heard Christine's scream- that scream that still rang in my ears. That scream was all my fault. I was never good with people and especially with words. I screamed for Madame Giry to get help as I took Christine in my arms. Soon it was just Christine, Gustave, and I sitting on the pier. It was only the second time our little family had been together alone, and the first time I didn't even have the slightest idea that I had a family.

Gustave was in a state of utter panic. He screamed for his father. I wrapped my arm tightly around Christine's waist to try to stop the bleeding as much as I could. I had little faith that she would make it, but I did not stop hoping for a miracle. Christine was a strong lady. Christine then beckoned Gustave over to her. He came to her side with tears streaming down his face. He was still screaming for Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny.

"Gustave, please!" his mother pleaded, "Your father, well, your real father –" My eyes pleaded with Christine. The boy was scared of me. He could not know. Her eyes pleaded back with mine, "I know I promised you, but you are all he has now." She was completely correct. My bet with the Vicomte caused him to leave town, and I did not trust him to take care of Gustave in a proper manner.

"Gustave, look with your heart and not with your eyes. The heart understands. The heart knows what's wise," she softly said to him. "Gustave, your real father is here."

I watched my own son run down the pier crying about this news. I still to this day do not know if the tears were out of fear, mourning, or the fact that he had lived his entire life as a lie. It could have been a bit of all three.

Christine passed out in my arms from loss of blood. I squeezed her waist tighter and begged her to stay with me. She eventually, to my delight, opened her eyes and gripped my arm. My angel's eyes were filled with pain and love. I lost hope. She was slipping through my fingers even faster than she had ten years before.

The truth hit me like a sudden blow to the head. "The boy, Christine, what am I to do with him."

"Erik," in all of the time we had spent together that was the first time she had ever called me that, "Just love him, and give him everything that you can give him." I nodded at her commands and ran my fingers through her curly brunette locks. "And Erik, take all of the love that you deserve." I promised her I would keep all of her commands. I remember specifically how her body seemed to fade away in my arms. Her skin faded to the shade of my mask. "Come closer, please," she asked me. I pulled her farther into my arms and leaned down. She pleaded with me once more, "Please come closer." I pressed my head against hers and took in the scent of her perfume on last time.

"Kiss me one last time," she muttered under what little breath she had left.

In a matter of seconds I remembered everything we had been through. I thought of everything that had ever kept us apart, but it didn't matter anymore. We had finally put all of those interferences to the side, and now we only had one moment left. I decided that if all we had was a moment, it was going to be a wonderful moment. I felt a warm tear drop down my cheek, and I melted into her. Her delicate hand grasped my shoulder for a moment as I pressed my lips as firmly as I possibly could against hers. For a moment we were unbreakable, but then death took hold of my dear angel of music. Her hand fell from my shoulder. I cried out for her and pressed her lifeless body against my chest, and I stayed this way for as long as I possibly could.

In a matter of minutes the doctors arrived with Madame Giry. They had to pry Christine out of my arms. I looked down at her blood that soaked the sleeve of my white shirt and let the tears poor down my face. By the time I looked back up, they were gone. My angel was gone.

I stood with my feet at the edge of the pier. I put one hand around a post and hung my body off of the edge.

I wondered what it would feel like to drown. I thought about how easy it would be to just slip off of the edge and drown in sorrows, drown in fear, and drown in the blue water.

It was then I saw something pale and small out of the corner of my eye. I stood straight and looked eye to eye with Gustave. I bent down to look him in the eyes. They were red and wet. He reached out for my mask. At first, I backed away, but he looked hurt when I did. I did not think anything could make him feel any worse than the death of his mother, so I slipped the mask off of the abhorrent deformity of my face. Gustave did not run this time. He simply hugged me tight, and I held him in my arms for a long time that night.

I once again held the same scared little boy in my arms. I could suddenly hear his breathing get heavy. I held him even closer.

Even though I could not see a thing in the darkness that was my home, there was a light. The light was buried in my chest and asleep in my arms. I had already let one light, my angel, slip away from me, but nothing was going to take my child away from me. With that thought, I drifted off to sleep.

I slept soundly that night because I knew that I was safe. I was safe because there was light yet no one could see what I was.

For Gustave was my protector just as I was his.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Erik's POV

Author's note: Yes, I realize that the last chapter was in Erik's POV, but I think you'll understand why this one is as well. Enjoy!

The next morning, or rather afternoon since Gustave and I slept in, I got up and fixed Gustave and myself breakfast. I normally did not eat in the mornings, but for some reason I woke up starved.

I set the breakfast down in front of Gustave and sat across the table from him. Immediately I saw in his eyes what he wanted. Before I had even taken the first bite, I started telling the story in full depth to Gustave.

"It began when I heard your mother sing." I had Gustave's full attention with his eyes sparkling. "When I was about your age, my mother sent me away to be a side show act for a circus."

"You mean like Miss Fleck, Mr. Squelch, and Dr. Gangle?" he asked.

"Well, yes, I suppose so, but I was not treated how they are. I was not free to leave my show as I pleased nor was I paid to be on display. I was kept in a cage with nothing but some paper and a chair to keep me occupied."

"That's unfair. You aren't a monster."

"Indeed, my Gustave, but that is what they saw me as. One night, when they let me out of the cage for supper, I found a piano in the booth where the orchestra played during shows. When the ring leader heard me play, he decided to supply me with a piano in my cell to attract more customers. I had nothing to do but write music. At first, it wasn't anything spectacular in my opinion, but while we were in Paris, I caught the attention of a choreographer from the Paris opera house."

"Madame Giry?"

"Yes, Madame Giry. She helped me escape the circus. By this time, I was about seventeen. She told me took me to the owner of the Opera Populaire, but he was so distraught by my appearance, he did not want me in his theatre. Of course, Madame Giry did not want to send me back, so she hid me under the basement in the catacombs of the opera house. Within time I acquired a piano and a bed. I built myself a boat out of some left plywood from an old set that was left, and I sewed pillows and fine clothes out of old costumes. I had to fend mostly for myself, Gustave, but eventually, even I get tired of the dark. I dared to explore upstairs where I found various hidden passages that people did not seem to know about.

"Now at first there was a beautiful leading soprano, but there was something about her that did not capture my heart, but for two long years, I still came and hid behind her dressing room mirror to hear her sing as she got ready. One night, a ballet girl was arranging roses in the soprano's dressing room and singing an aria. She had what the leading soprano didn't. To this day, Gustave, I cannot tell you what that quality is, but this ballet girl had whatever it was." My eyes filled with tears. I was only twenty years, but I remembered it so vividly.

I continued trying to keep my voice from breaking, "As Madame Giry's daughter got older, she came down to the cellar to bring me a weekly basket of food. I asked Miss Giry what the girl's name was. She said to me, 'That is Christine Daae. Her father used to be a violinist here, but sadly he passed away as her mother did when she was too little to remember. Now she dances for my mother.' With that Miss Giry left, and I remember saying your mother's name to myself over and over again."

Gustave giggled slightly. I smiled back at him, "Do you think that is funny, Gustave?"

He smiled big, "Yes. I imagine you saying her name over and over like a crazy man."

"Well, Gustave, that's what I was alright. I was crazy in love. I composed a beautiful song for her, and I went to her room in the opera house and hid behind the cracked door. I sang her my song, and she started to sing back to me. I had her repeat certain phrases to make her sound better. I guess she heard where the sound was coming from. She tore the door open, but she found nothing. Before she could see me, I jumped out the window and clung to the ladder that went up to the roof. Gustave, your father isn't much, but he is quick."

Gustave laughed at that. "Yes, Papa, I know."

"The next night, I came to her door and sang again. She began to call me this, 'angel of music.' Out of my natural shyness, I went along with this idea of hers. She told me a lot while I was teaching her. She told me about how her father used to play with her and play the violin for the opera. She told me about the wild imagination she had when she was younger. I found out she was three years younger than me, and she loved to swim with her best friend Meg, and that her favorite color was red. I sat up almost every night just to compose new songs for her to sing and other songs that I would sing back to her. Later, this grew to become my very own opera. About three years later, the beautiful soprano left to sing in London. I soon did everything in my power to get Christine noticed to be the next lead, but my plans failed. They hired an absolutely atrocious woman from Spain named Senora Carlotta Giudicelli. Naturally, I was in such a state of rage, I did everything I could to try to scare this woman away. I became known as the Phantom of the Opera as well as the Opera Ghost because I would cut down parts of the set or mysteriously make a member of the crew disappear out of my anger. For about five years I did these things, but one day the old owner of the Opera Populaire retired. I saw this as my chance to get Christine noticed. I drove Senora off of the edge so she quit temporarily. I wrote demanding notes to the managers detailing how my theatre was to be run." I grew even more distant with every word I told of the story. "This worked for some time, but I got jealous. Christine had fallen for a man she once knew as a child. I knew he was not going to be everything Christine needed, but she chose him anyway. After all of the songs I wrote for her, after all of the pain I had gone through to get her noticed, she chose that abomination Vicomte Raoul de Chagny!" with that, I threw my fist down on the table and Gustave's gasp broke me out of my trance.

"I'm sorry for scaring you, Gustave," I said rubbing my wrist where it had hit the table, "I just got carried away."

"I- I- It's all right. Please, do continue."

"Right, now where was I? You see, Gustave, I got obscenely jealous of the Vicomte. Not only did I push your mother's career as I singer, but I also tried to push Raoul away. The day finally came that I gave the new owners the script to the opera I had written for your mother. They had a plan to kill me when the day of the performance came, but I outsmarted them. Instead of sitting where I normally sat in the theatre, I went backstage and put on the costume in which the leading man covered his face so the girl would not see him. I went out on stage and performed the scene with Christine. Gustave, this was the first and the last time I ever performed of stage with your mother. We sang until she unveiled my cover. She pulled off my mask in front of the entire audience. Gustave, you know how I feel about keeping my mask on. I panicked. My plan had been to enchant her and prove to the opera house that I wasn't a monster, but when my mask came off, I had a fear of them hunting me down or worse, take Christine away from me. I dragged her down to the lair and tried to force her to marry me so I wouldn't lose her to the Vicomte. It happened all so fast, and your mother already felt betrayed because I had lied to her. I scared her. Raoul came down to fetch her, and more people were on their way to hunt me down. I was in such a state of panic that I threatened to kill the Vicomte if Christine didn't marry me. I told her to make her choice."

I felt so guilty telling all of this to my own flesh and blood. I had to tell him that he had lost a father that was a drunkard and a gambler and gained one that was a murder and kidnapper. I buried my face in my hands and let the tears swell in my eyes. I tried to stay strong for Gustave, but I just couldn't. He put his little hand on mine. I held his hand and continued. "She did not choose exactly. Instead, she pitied me. She kissed me. I melted for her and realized what kind of danger that I had put her in all of those years, so I let her go. She left with Raoul leaving nothing behind but the veil I had forced on her head and the wedding ring that I had forced onto her finger. Madame Giry and Meg helped me to escape. They hid me in Callay. One night, the night before the fighter left from France, your mother came back. She came back and told me she loved me, but I left her."

I came around the table and got on my knees in front of Gustave. I held both of his hands. "Gustave, I have never regretted anything more than leaving that night. I should have stayed with your mother. Then I wouldn't have lived ten years alone, you wouldn't have had to live a lie, and your mother, your precious beautiful wonderful mother, she- she- she would," I broke. If I had stayed, she probably would still be here. I think Gustave understood this. He started crying too.

"Oh my Gustave, but there are so many wonderful memories of your mother as well." I walked over to the corner where Gustave kept the music box that I made him. I winded the top up and let the tune play. "This song, Gustave, was the song your mother and I sang that night in the opera house."

Gustave wiped his eyes, "She used to hum that around the house when my – when the Vicomte wasn't home."

Gustave had my complete attention.

"She said that he despised that song. Papa," he said quietly, "She loved you. She loved you as much as she loved me. Don't feel bad for scaring her. It would have never mattered what you did to her. She still would have loved you because just as you wrote in her song, 'Love brings you pleasure and love brings you pain, yet when both are gone, love will still remain.' I love you, Papa."

He was completely right. He was going to grow to be wiser than me or his mother. I looked into those icy blue eyes that were filled with tears, and he looked back in mine.

"I love you, Gustave." I hugged him tight. "Do you want to hear something sort of comical that used to make your mother smile?"

Gustave nodded and wiped his eyes again.

"The Vicomte used to always throw her a single red rose after every performance which made her smile just as big as the world, but when she got back to her dressing room, she would find a vase of a dozen more from me. She would smile even bigger, drop the single red rose on the floor, and scoop up the entire bundle and smell them until she suddenly remembered Raoul's on the floor."

"Did she smile bigger because they were from you?"

I laughed. "No, she didn't know whom they were from, but she knew they had to be from someone she knew well. Raoul always tossed her a bright red rose, but her favorites were dark red."

Gustave smiled. "She always kept a vase of them on the kitchen table."

"Did she?" I asked. "Well, I'll be right back."

I went upstairs, out of the theatre, and to one of the vendors in the park that sold flowers. I purchased a dozen dark red roses, and told the man to send me a new dozen every Monday.

When I got back downstairs, Gustave had finished breakfast and was playing the tune his music box played on the piano. I set the vase of flowers on the piano and went to my room. I brought back the veil that she had left that night and tied it around the vase.

"There," I said. "Now she'll always be here for you and me."

Gustave came over to the table, scooped all twelve roses up, and smelled them just like his mother used to.

"They smell like her," said he.

"They do don't they?"

"Papa, what was the name of the song you and mother sang that night?"

"I called it, 'Past the Point of No Return.'"

Gustave's eyes filled with tears again. "Just like her. She'll never be back."

I put my arm around my son. "She never left. She was love, and love never dies."

The day went on as usual. I paid bills. Gustave ran up and down the stairs as the show girls and I played messenger with him. That night at dinner, I brought up the subject of starting school. After all, it was July. If Gustave was going to school, we needed to arrange that.

"What do I tell the teachers?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" I replied.

"What do I tell them? I can't tell them my name is just Gustave. I can't tell them it is Gustave Y. My mother is gone. What do I say?"

"If you want to keep Daae, you can. It is your name. You choose."

"My name was never Daae. It was de Chagny. Besides, Papa, you're my father. I want to show everyone that I am proud to have a father like you."

My boy knew just what to say and how. What he said tore my already weeping heart into two, but at the same time, the things he said made me melt much of how his mother used to do. "Tell them your name is Gustave Yousefi. You're the son of Mr. Y, and if they must know, my name is Erik Chandler Yousefi."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 Gustave's POV

As the summer drew to a close, I drew closer to my father. The grim reality hit me that I would have to start school in a couple of weeks. I was a bit of an outcast. I found it more entertaining to read a book and get lost in a fantasy as opposed to throwing a ball and getting grass stains on my pants. I liked to watch people or get lost in the music that was played by the organ at the daily Phantasma shows. Other little boys at the park liked riding rides and yelling and pulling their mothers behind them. It wasn't that I was against having fun, it was just that my definition of fun was different than the other children. I suppose I took up that quality from my father.

Every night before bed, I would always scoop the roses up and smell them. My mother's perfume always smelled just like the roses. I felt like I was close to her. I noticed that Father tended to walk by and take in their sweet smell from time to time as well. Every time that he did, one of two things would happen: either he would smile, or a single sparkling tear would run down his cheek. He never wanted really to discuss her or his past. I understood that it brought him pain to talk about those things, but I knew the real reason why he did not discuss them. He knew that if he did, we would both start crying again, and he wanted to be an example of a strong man for me.

I played piano more and more as the summer went by. Occasionally, my father would give me suggestions on how to improve my techniques. I made up my own melody that later grew to be somewhat of what you might call a song. After I went to bed at night, Papa would sometimes play with this song of mine and add new harmonies and chords with it to make the song something different every time it was played.

Nightmares didn't seem to haunt my mind as much as the used to. I didn't dream of drowning so much, and when I did, I would always remind myself that my father was just in the next room, and he was not going to let anything happen to me.

The farther the summer dragged on, the fewer tourists came. There was never a day that it wasn't busy, but it was not like when I first came and you could not even walk through the streets without brushing shoulders with every person that came across.

I had always been told that time heals all wounds, but I knew from my mother that it was not true. Just as she had missed my father through the years, in the same way, I missed her. It seemed that the longer that I was without my mother, the more I thought about her. Sure, I did not cry about it as much as I used to, and the roses that were kept on the table gave me some sense that she was there, but it was almost haunting the way her lullabies swarmed inside my head. They were lullabies that I would never hear her sing again as long as I lived. I sometimes wondered if this was how my father felt for those ten years that she was gone. It was painfully difficult. Just hearing my mother's name made me uncomfortable. I missed her terribly, and though I told myself to move on, I also told myself that I didn't want to. I missed her deep blue eyes, her soft curls that she always pinned back, the way she smelled like roses; I missed the cakes she made when I was having a bad day and the sound of her voice. I understood why father loved her because I did too.

The more I spent time with Father, the more I understood some of the things that my mother used to do. Sometimes she used sit in the dark just as my father always did. She hummed tunes around the house that I came to discover my father had written. My mom always bought a particular kind of Persian tea that my father also bought. I should have seen the connection that they had the night I had met him as "Mr. Y." They were very much the same, yet, they had such different ways about them.

Whenever I looked in a mirror, I saw both of them in me. I had my father's hair, eyes, and thin yet strong build. I had my mother's smile and body language. None of these qualities were bad, and every day, I told myself that I would make both of them proud.

I took up signing my full name as Gustave Henri Daaé Yousefi. It was completely French, and there was no denying that I was not American. I wondered what the other kids would say. I remembered what father had said about my name being my name, so it was my decision to choose what it said. I chose to add Daaé to the name to keep a piece of my mother and old life.

So many things had changed since I had come to America. I adjusted quickly to living in the dark. Truly, I didn't mind it so much. Although, there was something that bothered me about the lair, I was not allowed into my father's room. He gave me instructions not to go in there, but he never gave me a reason. I suppose I was scared to ask.

I enjoyed going back and forth to the theatre and to the lair. I liked talking to the various performers, and I think father enjoyed hearing what they had to say without ever having to leave his work. Truthfully, he didn't like to be interrupted, but the majority of the time, he was alright with hearing the stories his performers had to tell. I mostly saw it as playing games as a child, but now I realize that I was really the connection he had to other people since he did not like to make public appearances.

Occasionally, Madame Giry would come down to make sure that Father ate something from time to time and to hear what he was working on. I never saw much of Miss Giry anymore, not that I wanted to. She pretty much stayed away from Phantasma. I can't say I blamed her. Really none of the performers liked her since they had heard the rumor. Everyone said that she had accidentally shot the Vicomtesse, and she was supposedly the master's mysterious lover. They all said that she was the entire reason that he had built Phantasma. It was to get his mind off of her. I can't say that I liked them talking about my family, but I also can't say that what they said wasn't true.

As I was approaching my fifth grade school year, I became more used to my surroundings. Little did I know that my father had designed this place to be connected in every way, and there was so much to explore in the places the crowd did not dare to tread.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 Erik's POV

Since Christine's death, there was hardly a time that Gustave was not either in my sight or in the next room. The truth was, I dreaded the thought of him going to school. I did not want to be alone. It almost seemed odd that just a couple of months ago, that is all I wanted to be – alone.

The night was stealing in once again, and I found myself pacing the floor. I knew that Gustave must attend school. There was not much that I, nor any of the workers of Phantasma, could teach him. I had never had any education besides what circus performers had taught me, and most of my workers and performers were either immigrants or freaks that never had the chance to learn. It seems that I had no other choice. I wanted Gustave to be a million times smarter than I, and I wanted him to be with other children. He could experience neither if he stayed here with me all of the time.

Once I had come to my conclusions, I retired to my quarters. I closed the door and turned the lock behind me. I kept some of my darkest secrets here as well as some of my most prized possessions. Most of my possessions were from my time in America. The night that I had to escape the Paris opera house, I did not have enough time to pack my things due to the dire need to get away. I only took a change of clothes, Christine's veil and ring, and the red noose that had once entrapped Raoul de Chagny. All of these things I had in my hands when I made my quick escape with Madame and Miss Giry. On the way through the opera house, I came across the portraits that were hanging in the Grand Hall of the Opera Populaire. I grabbed Christine's off of the wall. Madame Giry begged me to leave it, but I just couldn't help myself.

I saw the shape of the painting under the layers of black curtains that I kept the portrait under so it would not be devastated by the dust. Reluctantly, I pulled the curtains off of the frame.

There she was. Her perfect brunette locks cascaded around her shoulders and face, and her red lips framed her perfect smile. I picked up the curtains once more and threw them across the room. Then, I picked up the tea cup that was sitting on my night stand from the other morning, and I tossed it. I saw it shatter against the dark wall. I dropped to the floor and clawed at my face. I knew that I would never forgive myself for Christine's death. If I had never killed anyone, never tried to hide from her, never had kidnapped her, never had sent those notes demanding her to follow my instructions, and most importantly, if I had never left her that night, she might still be here. Some nights, I just wanted to kill myself for everything I had ever done to her. Sometimes, I wondered if that was my ticket to see her again.

Then, I would remember Gustave. Where would he be if I wasn't there for him? He would be stuck in an orphanage, forced to become part of my circus, or worse, sent back to the Vicomte de Chagny since he was still Gustave's legal guardian.

I ripped my mask and wig off and cried. I did not even know what I was crying for. I had shed enough tears for Christine. Gustave deserved more than tears, and I did not want to be prideful to shed them for myself. I hated myself. I tried to remember the words I once wrote about love, but my love died in my arms. I would never see her again, but I could feel her in every single ounce of my being.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 Gustave's POV

I woke up, and I heard something crash against the wall in my father's room. I hopped out of bed. I was scared he had injured himself or worse. When I did, the gas lamp that remained lit on my night stand, toppled over. The sheets that I had just thrown off of the bed caught on fire. I ran into the kitchen to get water. When I had returned, the entire bed, rug, and night stand were caught completely on fire. I dropped the pan of water and ran into my father's room.

I dove onto the floor and pulled at my father's coat. In this emergency, my father's rule of never entering his room completely slipped my mind.

He leaped up from the floor and threw me out of his lap and to the side. "I thought I told you never to come here!" he yelled.

"I – I – I'm sorry."

"Leave!" He took up a bunch of black cloth up in his arms and threw it over something large and oval shaped.

"Please!"

"Leave, Gustave! You have disobeyed me!"

"Please, Papa! Please! I need your help!" This seemed to snap him out of his trance. He dropped to his knees and violently took me up in his long bony fingers.

"What is it, Gustave?" he asked.

"The gas lamp fell over in my room! I don't know what to do! I can't put it out myself!"

He stood up quickly and threw me to the side. I got up and stood behind his strong figure. The flames had made their way into our small kitchen, and one of the chairs was on fire. Papa took up the pan that I had dropped. He ran several pans of water and made his way deeper into my room.

When the flames had finally died, Father stumbled out of my room. His face was covered in soot. There was no way possible to tell the color of his skin he was so covered in ash. He was coughing into his handkerchief. He was hanging onto the doorway. He opened his big blue eyes and looked at me with sympathy, fell to his knees, and passed out onto the floor.

With my first instinct, I tried to wake him. I was now coughing from the smoke myself. I tried to drag him to the stairs. After a few tugs, I realized this effort was no good either. I darted up the stairs. There was no one in the theatre this time of night. It was almost two in the morning. I ran up another set of stairs into the upstairs dressing rooms. I pounded my fist against Madame Giry's dressing room door. As I had hoped, she answered the door. Her hair was still in its braids, but she was in a white night gown and holding up a gas lantern.

"What is it, child?" she asked with a tired tone in her voice.

I was still coughing. "It's Papa," I replied the best that I could. "There was a fire. He put it out, but now he won't get up. I'm afraid he's hurt, and I cannot help him." With that, Madame Giry asked no more questions. She followed me quickly back down to my father's quarters where we found him still lying in the floor.

"Oh, my poor Erik," she muttered. "Oh, thank God, he's still breathing. Gustave, go wet a rag for your father." I did as I was told. She put the cloth over my father's nose and mouth. "Gustave, I cannot move your father any better than you can, but perhaps, we can both move him together." I ran to him and wrapped my arms around his chest. Madame Giry, now coughing as well, grabbed him around the legs. We slowly tugged him up the stairs into the light.

He came back around in a few minutes, but he couldn't speak. The soot had overwhelmed his lungs. He was lying on the floor flat on his back. With the flick of his wrist, he beckoned me over to him. His hand wrapped around the back of my head, and he pressed my head against his chest. I wrapped my arms around him. I knew in the back of my mind that there was nothing more we could do for him until the morning, but I could not just let my father lie there in the middle of the floor in such a feeble state.

I broke the grip he had around my neck, and I ran backstage. I came back with two pillows that one of the clowns used in their act, a cape that he could use as a blanket, and I brought Madame Giry a chair in case she wanted to stay. I lifted up my father's head and slid the pillow under. I rested my head on the other pillow right there beside him and covered us both with the cape. Papa was still gasping for fresh air and still could not speak to me, but his now darkened face had streaks where tears had fallen. I wasn't sure if this was out of pain or gratefulness, but they were there all the same. His face said all of his words for him, and if that wasn't enough, he gripped my hand in his and held it to his chest the rest of the night.

Madame Giry did not stay with us. She went upstairs, got dressed, and went out to look for a doctor. She gave me specific instructions not to take my eyes off of my dear Papa. I don't think that I could have. The strongest man I ever knew was lying here in the floor crippled beside me, and it was all because I knocked over a gas lamp.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 Erik's POV

Not being able to move killed my spirit. My lungs felt as if someone had filled them with water, wrung them out, and filled them back up again. The only thing that kept me from going mad was watching Gustave's eyes.

His eyes were like windows. It was almost as if I could sense his every emotion just by looking into them. The more he thought, the more they shifted back and forth. It seemed as though he had a lot to think about tonight.

Sometime around day break, Madame Giry returned with a doctor. With Madame Giry, Gustave, and what little help I could give, they got me to an old dressing room backstage that no one was using at the time and placed me on the settee. The sun was rising out the window, and it occurred to me that I had never seen a sunrise since I lived in France.

As the doctor probed me and checked my heart rate and such, Gustave was frantically trying to explain to the doctor that everything was an innocent accident. The doctor understood and said that there was no reason for him to be so spastic, but I knew Gustave was really trying to convince himself, not the doctor, that this was all an innocent mistake.

The doctor wanted to take my mask off to open up airways and reduce the chance of getting any ash in my eyes. I put my hand there insisting to keep it on, but he insisted that it be removed. He reached out and tried to grab it, but Gustave intercepted his reach and put his hands on my mask.

"He prefers to keep it on," said Gustave.

"My boy, I'm just trying to help him."

"I know, but the only way you can is to leave his mask on."

The doctor nodded and looked at Gustave with sympathy. He continued with what he had to do, and he finished shortly. I acquired a new bandage around my arm and a small variety of medicines on the table beside me.

The doctor left after a short time and told Gustave that I would be fine. He gave a quick summary of my injuries to Madame Giry which consisted of a small patch of burned skin on my left arm, irritated eyes, and a bad case of smoke inhalation. One medicine was a cream for my burn, another drops to flush out my eyes (one of which was hurting immensely), and one for my breathing pains. Madame Giry paid the doctor, and he left.

"How could you be so foolish!" cried Madame Giry. Her comment was directed towards me. I tried to take in enough air to yell at her back, but I immediately went in to a rage of coughing. Each time my chest moved, I felt as if I was being stabbed in the heart.

"Please, leave him alone!" cried Gustave. "It wasn't his fault! It was mine! Stop yelling. You're hurting him. If you want somebody to yell at, yell at me!" With that, Gustave threw himself in the corner and tried to hide his tears.

Madame Giry looked at Gustave with a sudden surprise. "So much like his father," she said, "I am sorry for my words." She left without a sound and closed the door.

Gustave stood up from the corner and came to me. He pulled the mask away from my face, and he did not cringe. Instead, he hugged my arm tightly and said, "Oh, Papa, I'm so sorry this happened. It's all my fault. I'm so ashamed."

I wanted more than anything to tell him that it was alright and he had nothing to be ashamed of, but my attempt failed once again. All that came out of me was more coughing, so instead, I just patted him on the back and hoped he could understand what I meant. Gustave continued to cling to my arm as I stroked his hair with the hand on my bad arm. With each movement, a jolt of pain was sent down my arm, up my spine, and to the pin point of a headache in my head; but I did not really give a care for the pain. I was alright. I would recover, and more importantly, nothing had harmed a hair on my Gustave's head. I was more grateful than upset.

Next thing I knew, I was asleep and seemed to stay this way most of the day and following night. What little time I was awake was when Gustave had woken me up by trying to change the bandage on my arm or telling me that it was time to take a different medicine. This killed my spirit more than anything. I was supposed to be taking care of Gustave. I was to give him all that I had to give, but right now, all I could do was stay and be still. He was taking care of me. He soothed my headaches with cool towels and treated my injuries with loving touches. I saw so much in him the same loving tenderness that Christine had. I wished more than anything that I could have been that loving to her, so I promised myself and Christine in that moment that not only would I give everything that I had to give to Gustave. I would make up for every lost moment, every false word, and every action towards Christine that I regretted so dearly. I was going to be all that I could possibly be for our son, and no one was going to stand in my way.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 Gustave's POV

There are so few words that describe my father, but determined is one of them. He recovered quickly, and before any of us knew it, he was back to playing, or rather, hammering at the grand pipe organ. When I first started school, I found this organ a nuisance because it interfered with the work that I brought home, but it did not take me long to grow very fond of the organ upstairs. It gave me an escape when the other children were being bothersome, and truthfully, I did not mind hearing my father play. It was always so beautiful when he did.

The first three years of my schooling in America were far from brutal. They were, in fact, rather dull. I did not really associate myself with the other children. I did, however, occasionally sing with the school choir when they needed someone to fill in. The teacher often asked me why I did not sing with them full time, but she and I both knew that I was too shy for my own good and that I preferred to keep to myself.

I did not widely explore the park in those days. I could have, but I found myself wanting to stay close to Papa. I was too afraid to bear the loss of another parent, and after the fire occurred, it hit me that losing him was inevitably, though not likely, a possibility. This scared me after my shoes. I could not let it happen. I would not let it happen even if I had to make sure of it personally.

I spent most of my time watching the showgirls rehearse, doing my school work, playing piano, helping Papa around the park by delivering messages, and learning music from my father. It was a simple life, but sometimes simple is all that is needed after such a time of chaos. I had settled into my new home. I had made acquaintances with several of the workers in the park. To me this was all I needed, and usually, my father was happy as long as I was happy.

By the time my fifteenth year had come around, I was completely used to my routine. I woke up, fixed breakfast, made coffee for my father, went to school, came back home, ran messages around the park for Papa, did my school work, ran upstairs to talk to what few friends I had, and came back downstairs and talked with Father until he either sent me to bed or I fell asleep. However, my schedule was interrupted one day while on my journey to school.

After the ferry from Coney Island had docked, I made my usual walk to school. About half way through, I noticed a couple of boys my age in the corner of my eye. They were following a girl about the same age. Every few steps, they would step on the back of her shoe or kick a small rock to her heel. Each time they did this, she would quicken her pace. She was almost to a run when the smaller of the two boys kicked a rock to her heel and tore her stocking. She fell to the ground and the boys took off running away from her and towards the school.

Truthfully, I did not care much for children my age. I found them repugnant and unsophisticated, but still, I mustered up what little tolerance I had and walked over to the crying girl. I offered her my hand to help her up. She looked up at me with a questionable expression and took my hand with a gentle politeness.

"It seems that I have cut my ankle," she said as she avoided putting pressure on her right side.

I looked down at the end of the skirt of her pale yellow dress and saw where her foot was poking out from under it. Indeed she had just a dab of blood where her stocking had torn. "It seems you have," said I. "Would you like some help?"

"I would like that very much," she said drying her eyes.

She put her left arm around my shoulder, and I helped her limp the rest of the way. We did not say much. She only occasionally said how grateful she was to have someone gracious enough to help her, and I would reply with a simple, "It is not a problem, Miss."

When we got to the school, I helped her to class where her teacher smiled and thanked me and let me go on my way. The rest of the day went on as usual. The choir director told me that she was going to need an extra tenor for rehearsal that night, so I told her that I would be delighted to fill in. The day ended, and I packed my satchel full of books. I walked back out to the docks where I always met Squelch, one of my father's performers. We had made this arrangement so I could stay on the main land when I needed to, and my father would know where I was. I told Squelch that I would have to stay for a choir rehearsal to which he said that he would notify my father of my practice. He turned and left, and I headed for the old cathedral in which the choir rehearsed.

I wasn't far into my journey when I had the sudden feeling that I was being followed. I quickened my pace, but I heard the footsteps quicken behind me. I stopped and turned back to see a blushing girl in a pale yellow dress.

We stood and looked at each other for a moment. As I have mentioned before, I was not exactly fond of children my age nor did I fit in with them very well. "Is there something I can help you with, Miss?" said I.

She blushed even brighter and shuffled her feet, "No, no," she said, "It was just –"

"Just what?"

"It was just that I overheard that you were on your way to the cathedral for choir practice and –"

"And what?"

"You always walk alone," she said finally meeting my eyes, "and I thought I owed you a decent conversation after your help this morning. After all, I am headed that way as well."

I could feel my face getting hot. "No, it's fine, Miss. I prefer to walk alone."

I started to turn and walk away when she ran and caught me by the arm, "No one prefers to be alone," said she, "Some people just prefer to keep to themselves."

"Isn't that just the same thing?" I replied.

"No. It isn't."

"Well then, what's the difference?"

"No one wants to be alone by themselves without the presence of another, but some prefer to keep their thoughts and words to themselves. You can do that with me. I won't pry or ask questions if you don't want to answer them."

"That's a terribly interesting way to look at things, but I suppose you are correct." I stared at her in awe. She was dreadfully wise to only be of my age. "Well," I said, "I suppose if we are to make rehearsal on time, we should head that way." I turned to go at a haste, but she kept up with me and laced her left arm through my right. She had a very petite figure. Her white gloves were almost the size of a child's, and yet, she still had to pull at them every once in a while to make sure that they stayed on her tiny wrists. I continuously made sure that my cap stayed over my hair. It stuck up everywhere when I took the cap off, and I didn't want her to see it. I suppose I hadn't noticed earlier in the day, but she was dreadfully pretty. I suppose she wasn't traditionally pretty. She wasn't tall nor did she have round eyes and nose. Her nose was rather pointed. She had rather high cheek bones and blue eyes with long dark eye lashes. Her hair didn't hang in flowing ringlets nor was it put up in whimsical braids. She simply pulled in back in the front and let her long straight brunette hair cascade down her narrow back. Her dress was fitted and trimmed with white lace. As I studied where the trim had torn at the rim of her skirt, I noticed where the stocking had torn earlier this morning, now had a white gauze bandage wrapped around it.

After we had walked in silence a few moments, I decided it was probably better that we discussed something so I asked, "How is your ankle?"

She smiled, "Quite well. Thank you for asking, and thank you for helping me this morning."

"It was my pleasure. There is no sense in picking on ladies for doing nothing."

"My mother says boys do that when they like you, but I don't believe it."

"Well, I don't know much about girls and boys, so I wouldn't know."

She giggled, "Well I don't believe that either. I find you very charming."

I could feel my face getting hot again, and I was eager to change the subject. "I don't believe that I got your name, Miss."

"It's Elaina."

"Elaina. That's French isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, my good sir. How did you know?"

"I'm from France. It's where I lived until I was ten."

"Oh, did your parents migrate here?"

I rubbed the back of my neck nervously, "Well, I suppose you could say that."

"Well, I could suppose," she replied, " but I prefer a yes or a no answer."

"Yes," I said, "my father did, but my mother sadly passed away when we came here."

"Oh!" exclaimed Elaina in shocked tone, "I didn't know. As I said before, I do not mean to pry."

"It's quite alright," I said. It truthfully was alright. I never liked to talk about my mother and father to anyone, but I felt like Elaina was honest and good. I believed that she would keep any secret that I gave to her. I had not known her for long, but I already knew she had a kind disposition. "You're not prying," I replied, "I just felt like I could tell you."

"My lips are sealed. I won't tell anything you say. It's all between us. You never told me your name by the way."

I smiled at her. "Well, mine is French as well. It's Gustave."

She giggled, "I like that name very much. It's rather catchy. My family moved here from France before I was born, so they wanted me to have a name of French heritage. My full name is Elaina Annette Marion."

The way she said her name was so full of pride for her heritage. It made me want to say my own. "Mine is Gustave Henri Daaé Yousefi."

"That is a rather long name," she thought for a brief moment, "and a rather curious one." She stopped walking and looked at me long and hard, but she didn't let go of my arm. "Daaé you say?"

I knew I had been caught then and there. How could I have been so ludicrous? I could not be dishonest with her though. I would never forgive myself.

"Were you named after the great Christine Daaé?"

I felt tears burning my eyes as she said my mother's name. I had not cried in a good couple of years. I had thought about her often, but I never cried. Something about Elaina saying her name broke me though. I released her arm and sat down on the curb. Elaina's white glove gripped my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," she said, "This is my fault. I told myself not to ask questions. You probably think that I'm horrible."

She turned to walk away, but I gripped her hand before she got away. "No, Elaina," I said, "I don't mind telling you. I've never wanted to talk about this to anyone before, but I trust you. I feel like it needs to be told." I wiped my eyes and stood up from the curb. I placed her arm back around mine and continued walking. "Christine Daaé was my mother," I told her as we walked along. "She died in an accident at Phantasma. I was there, and I suppose I have never really gotten over it."

"She was shot and killed. I remember my father reading the newspaper the morning after her performance. I remember my mother cried. I cried too. She was my idol. We had just seen her performance the night of the accident. It was so hard to believe that she was gone."

"It was hard for me to believe to."

"I can only imagine what you've been through, Gustave. I'm so sorry." We walked along in silence for a few more moments until we reached the doors of the cathedral. We stopped at the doors and she said, "I promise I won't tell anyone your secret." She curtsied like a lady, "I enjoyed your company." She giggled and went inside the church.

I stood outside for a moment comprehending what just happened. I pulled myself together and went inside.

Practice went well although it ran late. I sang louder and fuller than I ever had before. I noticed Elaina for the first time as well. She sang soprano and had a vibrancy that only those with a certain talent could possess. When practice was done, I went up to our choir director and told her that I would like to sing full-time if she would have me. Naturally she said yes, and I put on my coat and left.

Elaina walked with me once more down several streets until she had to turn to go home. We talked about the rehearsal and our preparations for the concert. She told me that I had a lovely voice, and I told her the same. Before she left me, she took me by the hand and said, "If it helps, your mother's voice touched many lives. You should carry on her legacy. You're perfectly capable, Gustave." She let go of my hand and left.

As I walked back to the docks, all that was on my mind was Elaina and how she accepted me for who I was.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 Erik's POV

The lower my stack of bills got, the more I wondered where Gustave was. True, I knew that he had a choir practice, but it never ran this late. It was already nine o'clock. On nights he had practice, he was usually home by eight. I began to worry something might have happened to him. It was starting to rain heavily, and I grew more concerned.

I had finally gotten through every payment when Gustave stumbled through the door. He started shaking his wet coat off and he ripped his shoes off hoping that I wouldn't notice that he still had them on. I brightened the gas lamp, cleared my throat, and stood.

Gustave suddenly noticed me. His wild hair was sticking up, and he had a smudge of mud on his cheek. He stopped moving and downcast his eyes. He knew that he was in trouble.

"Squelch said that you were to be expected back at eight. It is now nine-thirty. Do you care to tell me what was so important that you had to worry me like that?"

Gustave shuffled his feet. "I'm sorry, Papa. Practice ran late, and I kind of got caught up with this girl from school."

"A girl?" I was in complete shock. Gustave had never mentioned anyone from school.

He blushed. "Yes, Papa, her name is Elaina. She is a friend of mine."

"I see," I said, "Did this Elaina know that you were expected home?"

"No, Papa, she didn't. I promise I won't let it happen again."

"That's all I ask of you, Gustave. Now, go wash up, eat something, and go to bed. Tomorrow is Saturday, and I had planned on us going to the beach for a little while. Does that sound alright?"

Gustave had a rather nervous expression on his face. I wasn't sure if it was because I had reprimanded him or because he had never learned how to swim. Nevertheless, he said it sounded fine, and he went and did as I ordered. I hated reprimanding Gustave, but he was a very stubborn young man. I suppose he had received that quality was from me.

I didn't feel much like sleeping. I took a quick bath and sat down at the piano for a little while. I played some of my older pieces, but I couldn't write anything. I suppose there had been nothing to inspire me lately unless, there was some magical way of letting money and bills be a muse. I paced back and forth for most of the night. I sang a couple of arias. I needed a muse. I needed something to help me write. That's when I remembered something. I remembered the painting.

I went into my room and pulled back the black curtain that covered the oval frame. Fortunately, it had not been devastated by the fire from so long ago. I touched her face. That was all I needed. I needed to remember what she felt like. I covered the painting back up, went back to the piano, and began writing. By the time Gustave's alarm went off, I was finished. I imagined Christine's voice dancing across the notes. It was perfect, although, it brought tears to my eyes to know that she would never sing it.

Gustave came in the main living area with some casual clothes on and said that he was ready to go. I thought for a second. I thought about how I had never overcome my fear of the light or of people seeing me. True, it was too late for me, but I was not going to let Gustave grow up to be afraid of things.

"You're not ready," I said to him.

Gustave looked at me confused.

"We're going to the beach," I said smiling, "Put on a bathing suit. We're going swimming."

Gustave began to object, but I hushed him up. He soon returned in a blue and white striped suit. "I look ridiculous," said Gustave.

"Nonsense," said I. "You're always a handsome lad!"

"Alright," said Gustave, "Then where's yours?"

He had grown smart- too smart for me. He knew that I was desperate to get him in the water, and he knew that I was going to do anything to get him there. I did not own a bathing suit, but I remembered the costume closet upstairs. Perhaps there was a suit up there that I could borrow, and of course there was. I slipped it on and looked in the mirror. Yes, Gustave was right. The outfit did look ridiculous. Gustave knew that I always dressed formally. He knew that this was going to be very embarrassing for me, but I was willing to do anything for him.

I went back downstairs and presented myself to Gustave, and he laughed at me like an audience might laugh at a clown. Nevertheless, we were going to the beach one way or another. I packed us a quick lunch in a basket. Gustave grabbed a blanket and a couple of towels, and we were off. We went through a series of underground tunnels to avoid going through the park. When we came out on the beach, Gustave was as white as a sheet looking out onto the water.

I grasped his shoulder, "You can do this, Gustave. I promise."

"I'm not ready."

"That's alright. We'll go when you are ready."

Gustave nodded and spread the blanket out on the sand. We sat there for a few hours. We talked about how school was going for him, how the choir was doing, how my park was running, and how our music was going. It was nice to just sit there and hear his voice and see his face. As the afternoon was drawing in, more beach-goers came. Most stayed with their families, but there's always one that must stare and talk. Those people usually came and went quickly though. I noticed Gustave watching a family in the distance. There was a father, a mother, and two girls. One looked to be Gustave's age, and the other couldn't have been over the age of seven.

"Do you know them?" I asked Gustave.

"I know the eldest girl," he replied. "That's Elaina."

I nodded. She was a very pretty young girl. "Do you wish to speak with her?"

"No," I replied. "She's here with her family. I don't want to bother her."

We continued our normal conversations when I suddenly noticed a shadow looming over our blanket.

"Hi, Gustave," said the little brunette girl smiling.

"How do you do, Elaina?" replied Gustave.

"Quite well," said she, "Gustave, is this your father?"

"Yes," he said hesitantly.

I stared at her waiting for her to say something out of fear or impulse, or even worse, about my mask, but instead she just smiled and continued her conversation with Gustave.

"I was just wondering if you'd like to go for a swim, Gustave," she said sweetly.

Gustave looked at me in a panic. I did not know what to tell the young girl. It was ultimately Gustave's decision. I gripped his shoulder to let him know that I was there for him.

"No," he said nervously, "We just ate. I might get a cramp or something."

She looked disappointed, but she smiled, "That's alright. I understand." Then she turned and walked away.

Gustave put his head in his hands humiliated. I put my arm around his shoulders and held him close for a little while. The girl's family left in a short time, and the sun began to set. There was no one left on the beach except for Gustave and I. He wiggled his way out of my embrace and stood up.

"Papa," he said confidently, "I want to learn how to swim."

I stood up alongside him, put my arm around his shoulders once more, and said, "Gustave, I believe that is a fine idea."

I took him out into the water. Once he had gotten over his nerves, he learned quickly. Next thing I knew, he was swimming and splashing in the waves without me having to hold him up. I was so proud of him. As we crawled out of the tide, I could see the pride written across his face. He collapsed on the blanket we left on the beach, and I fell down alongside him. He laid his head on my chest and we counted the stars.

"Papa, where is the moon? I only see stars."

I sort of laughed at the thought, "Well, my son, I believe it is a moonless sky tonight."

"That's strange," he said.

He pointed out every constellation he had learned in his science class, and I told him the ancient stories behind each one. The more stories I told, the heavier his eyes grew. He fell asleep there with his head upon my chest, so I scooped him up like he was a small child again and returned him to our home. I sat him down in his bed. As I turned to go back and get the rest of our things, I heard him whisper, "I love you, Papa."

"I love you too, my son," I replied back to him. Then I returned to his bedside and kissed him on top of the head. I went to my room and put on a pair of slacks and an old white dress shirt. Then I returned to the beach to collect our things, but before leaving, I couldn't help myself. I thought of that one night I had spent with Christine. That night it was too dark to see a thing or even try, so once more, I laid myself down on the blanket beneath the moonless sky.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 Gustave's POV

I woke up the next morning refreshed, and I headed to the living area. My father wasn't there, so I went to knock on his door. I knocked continuously for a few minutes, but no one answered. I immediately panicked. My first instinct was something might have happened to him during the night, but that's when I noticed that there was no picnic basket on the table nor were there any towels or a blanket. I knew Papa had went back to get them last night. I quickly threw on some clothes from my top drawer and pulled on some shoes. I did not even think about running a comb through my matted hair or tucking in my shirt. All I could think about was that if something terrible had happened to Papa then I would never forgive myself. I ran through the tunnels and came out on the shore. That's where I found a large figure lying near a large red blanket. I ran to him and shook him. He sat up rather slowly. He was clenching the small of his back and moaning in pain. The right side of his face was still covered by the white porcelain mask, but his left was now covered in a mask of sand where he probably rolled off of the blanket sometime in the night.

He moaned some more and asked, "What is it, Gustave?"

I was relieved that he was alright, but I was also angry he had put me under so much worry. "Nothing," I replied. "It's just that I expected you home at eight." I reached into his front trouser pocket and pulled out his pocket watch, "Oh, look at that, it's now nine-thirty."

He breathed a short laugh at my comment. "Sarcastic- just like your mother." He stood up and rubbed his eyes, "It seems that I can't practice what I preach."

"No, it seems you cannot," I said angrily, "You had me worried sick."

He looked at me for the first time that morning with blood shot eyes, "Now you know how it feels."

I felt guilty for a moment, but it didn't last long because Papa suddenly noticed my haggard appearance. He was always one for looking his best, and he expected me to do the same.

"What in the world was going through your mind this morning, Gustave?" he asked me in an irritated tone, "My God, you didn't even tuck in your shirt! Have you gone mad?"

I was about to tell him that I was so concerned about finding him that I forgot, but he seemed infuriated enough without me adding something to it. Papa bent down and gathered the towels and blankets in one arm and wrapped the other around me.

"Come on. Let's go get the both of us cleaned up. I think I have sand in my pants, and it's not a pleasant feeling," he said.

"Papa, can I be frank with you?" I asked looking up at him.

"Of course, Gustave. You can tell me anything."

"I don't really want to know that you have sand in your pants. I think that's more information than I wanted to know." Papa laughed and ruffled my matted hair. We twisted our way through the tunnels once more to our home.

He sat the towels on the table, and smoothed down his hair. "Go freshen yourself up, Gustave," said Papa, "I'm going to go do the same.

I went into my room and put on some clothes that actually matched. I had just about outgrown them, but it was enough to get by. I ran a comb through my hair several times. It still stuck up all over my head. Although my hair was straight like Papa's, it was unruly like my mother's used to be. She always had to pin it back because if she did not, it never failed that one stubborn curl would fall in her face and get in her way. I sort of laughed at the thought. I remembered a performance she had when I was about seven, and the curl had come bouncing out of her updo. She had to flick it out of her face every few seconds while she was singing. She still sang perfectly all the same. Likewise, there was always one twig of hair that managed to stand straight out from my forehead. I sighed and threw a cap over the annoying strand; then I went into the living room and presented myself to Papa.

He looked like the perfect gentleman as usual. His hair was combed back to perfection. His white mask had been newly polished. He was wearing his typical white bow tie (he always said black ties were less formal). His clothes were perfectly pressed, and his shoes had been spit shined until you could see the white mask reflecting back at him.

He reached out to grab his cape off of the coat stand when he suddenly noticed me standing in the doorway of my room. He sighed. "Gustave," he said, "You're growing up to be a handsome young gentleman. I believe it's high time you looked like one."

I down casted my eyes. I felt guilty about my appearance. Papa had taught me how to spit shine my shoes and press my clothes, but I hardly ever did. I felt like I had more important matters on my hands.

"Come now, Gustave," he said, "No need to feel bad. I ordered you something. I was going to give it to you for your birthday, but I believe now is as good a time as any." He handed me a stack of three white boxes tied together with a sheer blue bow. I looked up at him, and he told me to open it. I hesitantly pulled away the bow, and opened the top box. In it there were three bowties. One was white, the other red, and the other blue and white polka dotted. There was also a black satin hat with a white feather pinned to the side of it. I looked up at my father and smiled.

"I got Mr. Brannon who works on costumes upstairs to tailor you a couple of things. He says that the fashion has changed highly since the war. He said that you would probably like what he made."

I nodded. I hadn't even seen what was in the other boxes, but the hat had me sold. Other boys in my grade were dying to have one like it, but they were stuck with their old newsboy caps like I had been.

"Keep digging in that first box by the way," said Papa.

Under the hat there had been a can of Dapper Dan Pomenade. I laughed. I knew from now on Papa expected me to keep my hair slicked back, and I was happy to do it for him. I was getting tired of covering the unruly mess up.

I opened the second box. There were three white dress shirts and a new black belt with a matching pair of cuff links. He also included a new pair of black patent leather shoes.

In the last box, I got to see my new suits. One was a typical black formal suit. It had tailcoats like the ones my father wore. It was trimmed in black satin. I didn't know what I would wear it for, but whatever it was, I had the perfect suit for it. The second one was a typical everyday suit. It was navy with gold buttons. It wasn't very special, but it was definitely going to make me look more like a gentleman than the old sweater vests and knickers that I wore to school every day. The third one that was under the other two suddenly caught my eye. It was white. It was had gold buttons and my father had tucked in a red dress shirt. It was the kind of suit that only the silent film stars wore. I picked it up carefully. It was soft and was obviously made out of some sort of expensive fabric. Out of the jacket pocket, a little gold band with a little blue stone tumbled out. I picked it up. The ring matched the buttons on the coat. It wouldn't fit any of my fingers except my pinky. It was obviously a ring for a woman, but something about it looked familiar. That's when I noticed the ring my father always wore on his left pinky was not there.

"Papa," I said quietly, "I can't take this. You always wear it. It's not right. The ring is yours."

"No, Gustave," he said, "Look again."

The ring had my mother's name engraved on the inside of the band. "When I intended to marry your mother," said Papa, "I made that ring for her. Of course, you know the whole story. She returned it." My father's eyes started to tear up. "I've had it ever since. It's yours now."

"But this is the last piece you have of her. I can't take it away."

"It's not the last piece, Gustave." He patted his chest. "There will always be a very, very large piece in here."

I slid the ring on my finger. I looked at it for a second. The blue crystal would have matched my mother's eyes. I started to tear up once more as well. I threw my arms around my father. He wrapped his arms around my waist. We stood there like that for a long time. I knew I was growing up. Sometimes I wished that I had known my father from the beginning so I could have had more time with him, but I also knew that I probably wouldn't have appreciated him as much if I had known him for so long. Yes, it was undeniable that I was growing into a young gentleman, but I would always be my father's little Gustave, and he would always be my Papa.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 Erik's POV

I held Gustave in my arms as long as I could keep him there. He was almost as tall as me. He had been helping Squelch with a lot of heavy lifting backstage, and he was almost as strong as me. His shoulders were growing broader, and his torso was growing slimmer. He was growing so handsome. Although I didn't like the thought of him spending time with this Elaina, I could understand what she saw in him. Sometimes I had to remind myself that he was mine. True, he had my eyes and my build, but he was so beautiful. I was so ugly. How could he have come from me?

The suits were going to fit him nicely, and I was almost as proud of them as Gustave was. It was difficult for me to pass the ring on to Gustave, but I knew it had to be done. He needed a piece of his mother, and at least, I had her portrait. I had her veil. I had every song she ever sang stuck in my head. I was old enough to remember her. All Gustave had was a photograph taken of her during her last performance. The man who took the photo for the newspaper, gave it to Gustave since he knew the poor child's mother had died.

After Gustave had gone to bed, I went up to the theatre and roamed around. I had stood everywhere in that theatre. I had built it with my bare hands, but there was one place that I hadn't stood. I stood in the wings of the stage and looked over to the x that marked the center. I slowly made my way to the mark. I stood there for a moment and then turned to look out over all of the empty seats. I tried to imagine what Christine felt like when she sang here. I could imagine if every pair of eyes that occupied every seat in the theatre was looking at me, then I would be so nervous that I would feel like I was flying. That's how she sang. She sang as if she was above the world. She was a part of the atmosphere. Something about center stage just pulled a song right out of me. I sang what I had written just a few nights ago. It rang through the theatre like a bell rings through the city. I sang with all of my might until I noticed a figure standing in the wings.

"Makes you seem invincible doesn't it?" Meg Giry came strolling out from behind the curtain. Her tiny waist was wrapped in a silk robe and her blonde hair curved around her face in loose ringlets.

I could feel my heart beating right out of my chest. I had thought that I was alone. "Yes," I said back to her, "I suppose that is how it feels."

The truth of the matter was, I had not truly spoken to Meg since the night of the accident. I didn't exactly have any sort of grudge against her, but she was never really around. She did her show and left. She never confronted me for anything, and I never really had a reason to speak to her. I heard rumors that sometimes at night she hung herself off of the side of the pier, but she never had the courage to jump, at least, not after what happened to Christine.

"I don't think I ever told you how much I love this place. This theatre brings out the best and the worst of people," She laughed at her comment, "Just those of us that have the worst in us have already let it out." She lit a cigarette and offered me one.

"No. I don't smoke," I said.

"Sure you don't," she said cunningly, "You're the only man in New York that doesn't. I hope you know that."

"Other men do not seem to faze me."

"That's probably a good thing. They faze me, and let me tell you. It ain't good. They can pull a girl into whatever they want to pull her into so long as it involves money or booze." She took another puff on her cigarette.

"I'm sorry to hear that." I stood there and thought for a second. She was making me uncomfortable, but there was no way to get out of her conversation. "I don't suppose I ever thanked you."

"Thanked me? For what? What could I ever have done for you? I killed the love of your life. I turned to other men when you were the one writing songs for me. What could you ever thank me for?"

"I mean what you did for the money and the permits and such. Thank you."

She breathed a quick laugh. "Sure. You're welcome for that. I've come to realize that it was more for me though. It made me feel pretty. It made me feel like I was worth it to somebody."

"I'm sorry that I never made you feel that way."

"It's not your fault." She took a couple of steps closer to me. "Some people are just willing to do anything for the ones that they love." She tossed me a small white box, and she walked back into the darkness of the empty theatre. I watched her until all I could see was the small fire of her cigarette.

I opened the box. Inside it, there was the diamond necklace that I had fastened on Christine's neck the night of her last performance. She had ripped it off when we discovered that Gustave was missing. The clasp was broken. There was also a small journal. It was dated from her first visit down to my lair in the opera house up until the evening Christine had died. She must have left it in her dressing room when she had gone out looking for Gustave that night. I thumbed through the journal. There was ten years' worth of her thoughts in this journal. They were ten years that I missed, but now I had them in the palm of my hand. She had her complex thoughts written down about the Vicomte's drinking habits. She had thought about how her life may have been different if she had been with me. She also had little details that I did not know about her or Gustave. They used to bake cakes together when he was upset. He loved anything chocolate. When he was small, he loved the color purple and insisted on having a purple winter coat, but Raoul wouldn't let him have one. Everything she wrote was so finely detailed. It was beautiful. I clutched the journal close to my chest.

I didn't know if Meg was still there or not, but I said just in case, "Thank you, Meg. Thank you for everything."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 Gustave's POV

As I was preparing for school the next morning, I put on my new navy suit and wore it with pride. I slicked my hair back. As I looked in the mirror, I covered the right side of my face with my hand. I was really starting to resemble my father, and truthfully, I was okay with that. My father was the most beautiful man that ever lived rather anybody else realized it or not.

I slipped my new ring on my little finger. I could see my reflection in the stone. It occurred to me that I would have to seriously take care of it if I wanted to last as long as my father had made it last. I was so proud to have something of my mother's. As far as I know, nothing was salvaged of hers the night of the accident. All of her belongings had been taken in as evidence. I kept her picture on my night stand though. I acquired it from a reporter who had taken her picture during her final performance. He gave it to me because he felt so sorry for my loss. I would probably never get to thank the man, but I was forever grateful for it.

I grabbed my satchel and put on one of my old newsboy caps. I didn't want to go to school with too much of a sudden change. I did not like to stand out to the other kids, and I was obviously going to in my new suit. I really did not care what they thought though. My father had bought me this suit, and I was going to wear it.

Before I left, I made a quick comment to father that I would be having to stay for choir practice from now on, and he should expect me home at eight-thirty (just in case I got caught up with Elaina again). My father agreed to the terms, and I headed out for school. The city was not as busy as usual for a Monday morning. I had gotten all to way to school without running into Elaina. She had become my only friend, so I had made it a point to myself to try to talk to her at least three times a week. Surely, even I could uphold these standards. I made this promise to myself because school would be out for the summer in only two weeks, and I knew that if I did not make myself promise to do something, it would never get done.

When I got to school, several of the boys noticed me immediately. A couple of them asked me where I got my suit. More of them asked how I could have ever afforded it. Most of the boys had never even talked to me before. It's funny how the beauty of appearance catches someone's attention before the beauty of a person's attitude. I was trying to ignore their remarks and speed my way through the school yard when I ran into a boy, and we both fell to the ground. He stood up and offered to help me.

"Hey, Yousefi," he said, "Looks like you need to calm yourself down before you hurt somebody. Say, what's got you so worked up anyway?"

I recognized the boy's face. It was Lucca Giovanni. He was in my class. I had never talked to him before, but everybody seemed to know Lucca's life history. His parents were immigrants from Italy. They owned a restaurant downtown. It must have been pretty popular because Lucca always wore nice clothes. He always kept his hair combed back except for one black strand that fell in his face. He spoke fluent Italian and had an entrancing accent, and supposedly just about every girl around had their eye on him. He was tall, tan, and had a chiseled physique. I must say that out of all people in school, I didn't expect Lucca Giovanni to talk to me, but he did that day.

"Nothing," I said.

"Hey, come on, Yousefi! I don't bite! Hey, nice suit by the way. I saw one in a store window the other day. Looked almost just like that one. I thought about buying it, but I changed my mind. I should have. We could have been the two most handsome guys in school."

I just rubbed the back of my neck like I always did when I was nervous.

"Geeze, Yousefi, I knew you were shy, but I thought you knew how to speak."

"I do," I said defensively, "It's just nobody ever really talks to me."

He threw his fist into my shoulder like a lot of guys did to their buddies. "Gee that's a shame, Yousefi. You seem like a decent guy," and with that he walked to class with a bunch of students trailing behind him. I tried to understand what had just happened. I was getting a lot of attention all because of a suit. I liked the suit, but I didn't like that it was the reason people noticed me. I liked staying in the background of things. I decided to ignore it and just go to class.

It was a boring day as usual. We talked about recent stories in the news, and what President Harding had in store. I had not seen Elaina at school all day, so I decided to walk to choir practice alone. I had only made it a block when I suddenly felt a small arm wrap around mine. I suddenly realized why I had not seen Elaina all day. I was not the only one that had made a change over the weekend. Elaina had her hair in what they called finger waves and pinned back in some kind of bun. Instead of the typical long dress and white stockings, she had tights on the color of her skin, and her dress was shorter. She was wearing a long string of pearls with matching earrings. She was also wearing shiny black heels. She had red lipstick on, and her eyes and brows had makeup on them. Sure, she had been pretty just two days ago, but now she looked like a beautiful woman. Other girls were starting to wear the same fashions, but there was something different about seeing the look on Elaina. She was so sweet and innocent, and the new styles were so bold and daring. I stopped and stared at her for a moment, and she did the same.

"What made you change your look?" I found myself asking her suddenly.

She smiled, "_Vanity Fair_ says that this look is all the rage. There's a new designer in France that's gaining popularity, and she says that it's not fair for us women to have to wear corsets all of the time. I just adore her."

"So I see," said I, "Well, I can see why you like the look so much. It looks grand on you."

"Why thank you, Mr. Yousefi. You don't look half bad yourself."

"About the other day at the beach, I'm sorry for not swimming with you. The truth is, I had never learned how to swim, but I know how to now. Next time you come, I promise we'll go."

"It's alright, Gustave. I understand. There's something I have been meaning to ask you though. You don't have to answer, but it kind of bothered me."

"What is it?"

"Well, I noticed that your father was wearing a mask the entire time that we were there. It's awfully peculiar. They say the founder of Phantasma wears one too, and he's rumored to be a murderer. Does your father own Phantasma, and why does he wear a mask?"

"Well, I can tell you that he is the owner, but he doesn't like talking about his mask. I don't want to say anything that he wouldn't want me to tell."

She smiled brightly, "Oh my goodness!" she exclaimed. "Very few people can say that they have seen the owner of Phantasma! They say he always keeps himself hidden." Her expression suddenly grew dark, "Gustave?"

"Yes, Elaina?"

"Are the rumors about him true?"

"I don't want to say anything that he wouldn't want me to tell."

"I understand. One more question?"

"Yes, Elaina?"

"Doesn't he get a terrible tan with that mask on? Could that be why he wears it?"

I laughed at the thought. "To be honest, I don't really know if he gets a strange tan. He hardly ever takes it off, but I suppose, yes, that could be part of his reasoning," I said laughing.

She laughed too. It was not too long before we arrived at rehearsal. The concert was tomorrow night, and we were, for once, fully prepared. Everyone knew their music and their parts. It was going to be a good night. Practice actually ended early. Since it did, and my father did not expect me home until eight-thirty, I decided to walk Elaina home. I did not like the idea of her walking home by herself in the dark. In New York City, there was no telling what could be lurking around each corner. As we were walking, she started the conversation this time.

"I saw you talking to Lucca Giovanni in the school yard this morning. What was that about?"

"Oh," I said, "I just accidentally ran into him. We both fell. He just told me that he liked my new suit. That was all."

"I would be careful around him if I were you," she said. "I hear that he gets himself into some trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know exactly. Just be careful."

"Alright, I will. I promise. I had not really planned on speaking to him ever again anyway."

"That's good, I guess. Gustave?"

"What is it, Elaina?"

"What made you change _your_ look?"

"My father ordered them for me. I was out growing my old clothes. He thought I might want something newer and more stylish."

"Your father has good taste."

I nudged her with my shoulder, "You should know. After all, you do read _Vanity Fair_."

She nudged me back. She decided to leave our conversation at that. We walked in silence the rest of the way to the apartment. As she was skipping up the steps to the lobby door, she turned around.

"Gustave?"

"Yes, Elaina?"

"Will you walk me home after the concert tomorrow night?"

"Of course, Elaina."

She left it at that and went inside, and I went home.

When I opened the grand door to the theatre, my ears were hit with a sudden burst of music. I immediately recognized the melody. In my spare time, I had been composing a piece. Evidently, my father had found it. He was playing it with a full force. It sounded so much more beautiful when he played it as opposed to when I did. I walked to the front of the house and looked down into the orchestra pit where my father was sitting. He was fully entangled to every sound that he played and every key that he touched. He moved with the music. He was like a machine working in a perfect rhythm. It was captivating to watch him. He struck the last chord with all of his might, and I applauded him. He apparently did not even realize that I had come in because he jumped when he heard my clapping.

"I think I should be applauding you," he said. "This is a beautiful work of art, Gustave."

"Thank you, Papa."

"Whatever inspired you to write something like this?"

"Well," I said rubbing the back of my neck once more, "it isn't finished, but some of it was mother. Some of it was the Vicomte. That's the angry part, but most of it was you."

He looked at me in amazement for a moment. "It truly is beautiful, Gustave," he said once more.

I blushed. "Thank you, Papa."

"Be sure you finish it though. It cannot be a brilliant work of art until it is a finished work of art."

I smiled. It was just like him to give a compliment, and then finish it off with a few words of wisdom. "I promise I will. I just need something more to write about."

He climbed out of the orchestra pit and ruffled my hair. "You'll find it, my boy. You always do."

He went on his way back under the theatre and I stood there for a moment. Then, I climbed down into the orchestra pit. I thought of a voice that had stood out to me recently. I touched the keys, and I finished the piece the way my father had played it – full force.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 Erik's POV

I listened to Gustave's playing. He played like me. He did not just hear, he saw, felt, and breathed the music. I listened to my own son finish his story through music. It ended sweetly. The piece had gone through what I would imagine the hurt of the Vicomte's habits, the love his mother gave, the pain of her loss, the unfamiliarity of me, all we had been through, and it now had an ending that was soft and mild. All of the emotions that he conveyed were truly remarkable.

He came through the door toting a leather bound book full of sheet music that he had scribbled and marked on. I stood and went to the piano. I gestured for Gustave to take a seat next to me. I had been giving him lessons to improve his playing and writing. I had taught him all that I knew. He caught on quickly. He reluctantly took a seat next to me.

"Would you help me with something, Gustave?"

My boy nodded as he looked at me with a confused expression.

"I have some unfinished pieces. I want you to finish them."

"Papa, I couldn't do that."

I put my arm around him, "Why ever could you not?"

"Your pieces are so beautiful. I just couldn't finish them like you could."

"Nonsense, my boy! You play beautifully. After all, Gustave, you are my son. You play as I do. How about we make a deal then?"

"What kind of deal?"

"If you finish some of my older pieces that I never finished, then I'll finish my newer pieces before I'm dead. I promise."

I could tell that he thought I was joking. He looked up at me and smiled his innocent smile. "Very well, then," I said, "We have a deal." I offered my hand, and Gustave shook it just like a perfect gentleman.

I went to the small kitchen area and burned a pot of coffee. Something told me that Gustave was going to need it. I watched him shuffle through all of my music composition books. He took out one in the very top corner of the bookshelf. It was dusty and old. I had not touched it in years. On its outer spine read its label – _Don Juan Triumphant_. Gustave took it to the piano and started playing.

"This is the most bizarre piece that I've ever played," he muttered to himself.

He got through several bars of the next song when he stopped suddenly. He flipped through the next few pages and read the lyrics. I could not read his expression. He slapped the book shut.

He looked at me. "This is the piece isn't it?"

"What piece?"

He shook the book at me, "You know what piece. The piece that is played in my music box, the piece you told me about when I was younger. This is the piece you wrote for my mother. It was the only one you ever performed with her."

I poured some scotch in my coffee and braced myself for this conversation. I would never be a drunkard like Raoul, but it did soothe the aching bones in my joints. "Yes, Gustave," I said, "That's the piece."

"The words don't say what I always imagined them saying."

I chuckled at his innocence. "I was a young man then, Gustave. Things change. People change."

Gustave placed the book back on the shelf and pulled out another. He found a piece and tampered with it for a few moments until he then put that one back too. Several pieces later, he suddenly became entranced. He played through it several times in several different fashions. By this time, I was on my third cup of coffee. It turns out that I needed it more than Gustave did. I was remembering where and when I started the piece. I suddenly went back to the Opera Populaire. I remembered what Christine looked like as she laid there in my bed. She was sound asleep. The curls of her hair fell around her face like the perfect frame for the perfect picture.

Suddenly Gustave snapped me out of my trance. "Papa?" he asked.

"Yes, my boy?"

"Why do you say that this one is unfinished? The sheet music says that it is."

"Ah, I remember that piece. I had always intended on writing lyrics to the song, but I never really got around to it."

Gustave nodded. "Did you write this for mother?"

I felt the unfortunately too familiar feeling of the stabbing sensation in my heart. "Yes, Gustave, I did."

"Papa? May I make a rather strange request?"

"Yes, I suppose you may."

"Could I possibly show this piece to a friend?"

I thought about it for a moment. No one had really heard my music besides Christine and Gustave. Sure, there were a couple of pieces that had made a public appearance, but not many. I was no longer sure if I really wanted others to hear them, but I told Gustave to finish them. I was not going to make it my decision. I walked over to him. I closed his book, and I placed it in his hands. I put my hands on top of his. I remembered the promise that I had made so long ago.

"I give you this piece whole heartedly, Gustave. I trust you with it. Go do what you like with it."

Gustave looked up at me beaming. I kissed him on top of the head. Gustave would never truly understand just how much I loved him. I sent him off to bed. It was now two-thirty in the morning, and he had a concert tomorrow night. Perhaps it was the father in me, but I knew that he needed his rest. I too was growing older. I needed mine as well, and I retired to my chambers. I felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off of my shoulders that night. Although it sort of irked me to know that I would not be finishing my pieces, I knew that they were in good hands, and it was all too big of a job for just me. I had written too much music. They were Gustave's now, and I knew that he would make the most of them. He would make them heard.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 Gustave's POV

**A/N: I just wanted to give a big thank you to my loyal readers! You guys are amazing, and I love hearing from you. Be sure you go check out my new story (also Love Never Dies based), The Power of the Music. Don't worry; I will be continuing this one as well. Lots of love – E.B.**

I woke up the next morning excitedly. I was surprisingly full of life to have stayed up so late. I threw on the same suit as yesterday and headed off for school. I practically ran all the way there, and I waited in the yard in front of the school until I saw Elaina. I ran to her with the little leather bound notebook in tow. Being the clumsy self that I am, I ran into her, but she stopped me with a firm grasp on my shoulders. She was surprisingly strong to look so frail and delicate.

"My goodness, Gustave!" she exclaimed, "What in the world has got you so worked up?"

"Come on!" I replied to her, "I have to show you something before class starts." I took her by the hand and dragged her towards the school. One of the more recreational teachers that taught younger children had a small upright piano in her room. She was my first teacher three years ago, and she was by far my favorite. I asked her if she would mind my playing. She was always so enthusiastic and said that she would love to hear me play. She didn't even know I did. I pushed Elaina's shoulders and sat her down beside me on the little old piano stool. "I want you to help me with this," I said. I played through the piece.

"It's beautiful, Gustave. It's perfect the way that it is. Whatever do you want me to help you with?" she asked with a look of disbelief on her face. She touched the music with her hand almost as if it were a priceless painting.

"It's not finished."

"It sure sounds finished."

"I know. That's what I thought when I first played it."

"How do you know it isn't finished if you didn't write it?"

"My father wrote it. He told me that he had always intended to write lyrics, but he never really got around to it."

"Your father writes exquisite music," she said still in shock of the piece.

"His only truly exquisite ones are the ones he wrote for my mother. This is one of them."

"Oh, Gustave, I couldn't help you with this piece. It's too special to your family. I shouldn't be a part of it. I would probably just ruin it."

I was sort of hurt by her reply. She was right. I hadn't even thought about how my father would feel if he found out some little school girl that he didn't even know wrote the lyrics to his piece. Then I realized, that's the entire reason I wanted Elaina to hear it. She was my muse just as my mother was to my father. I didn't need her to write the lyrics. I just needed her to sing them. "You're right," I found myself saying suddenly, "Could you at least hum the melody for me?" She did as she was asked. I had never heard her sing by herself. She had always been singing with the other girls in her section in the choir. Her voice floated over the notes. She reminded me of Mother. Her singing was almost effortless even through the higher notes in the piece. It was all I needed. I suddenly thought as my father would, and my hand went in rapidly adding in lyrics. They were about love. They were about the love I had for my mother, the love I had for my father, and the love that I had for Elaina. I finished right as the time the bell rang. I felt sweat bead my forehead, and Elaina was staring at me as if I was a mad man. Her look of disbelief corresponded with the fact that she had no words for me. I looked at her and smiled, "Like father, like son." I took her hand and walked her to her class. She stared at me in disbelief the entire time. I gave her a little nudge to go through the classroom door, and she continued to watch me as I walked away. I was so happy that I couldn't contain my joy. I went down the hall jumping and yelling excitedly. I got even more stares from the kids than I did on a typical day, but I didn't care.

During break, I grabbed Elaina, whom was still speechless, and I pulled her to the piano our choir teacher had since the younger grades had already had their break. I handed Elaina the words and began to play. She timidly started to sing, and I stopped playing. "No, Elaina," I said in an angry tone that even surprised me. I sounded like my father. "You sang it so beautifully this morning. Don't be shy. Sing."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "It's just I have never seen you this way. It's sort of frightening."

I took her by the hands, "You will never have any reason to be frightened of me. I give you my word that I will never hurt you." I didn't know where those words came from. I suppose I was promising myself more than I was promising Elaina. She nodded, and I began playing again. Her voice was like velvet as it moved over the words. I was lost in the sound when suddenly the music ended. Elaina was smiling and holding her hand to her chest.

"This is so beautiful, Gustave," she said sweetly.

Suddenly I caught a glimpse of my Ms. Lackey, our choir director standing from her desk. She had the same expression on her face that Elaina had that morning. It was the look of disbelief.

"Elaina," she said, "Would you like to sing this piece as a solo tonight at the concert? Gustave you may accompany her. Your playing is so beautiful."

I nodded my thanks, and Elaina started shaking her head nervously. She was too scared to say yes even though in her heart, that's really what she wanted to say.

I spoke for her, "We'd love to."

Elaina shot me a look that I had never seen, but I smiled at her all the same. She knew there was no getting out of it.

"Who are the composers? I need to know what to announce," said Ms. Lackey.

I replied with a smile, "That remains a mystery to you."

She looked at me confusedly. Elaina suddenly looked at me again, "I thought you said your father wrote it?"

"He did," I said, "but have I ever told you who my father was?" She shook her head. "I thought not," I replied.

"I'll just put it down as an anonymous composer," said Ms. Lackey.

"That will be just fine," I said. Elaina and I both wished her well for the concert, and we both left for our afternoon classes.

I rushed home right after school. We didn't have a pre-show rehearsal, and Ms. Lackey had told us that we needed to be dressed in evening attire for the night.

As I rushed through the door, my father jumped. "Sorry, Papa," I said, and I kissed him on the head. I placed a small white envelope on his desk in front of him. I had intended to go to my room and get ready after that, but Papa grabbed me by the arm and stopped me in my tracks.

He held up the envelope, "What's this?"

"It's an invitation to my concert tonight," I replied. "It's going to be a formal event. I want you to be there."

I could see his expression under the mask. He was nervous. He knew that there were going to be a lot of people there, but so did I. Everyone at school had heard the strange stories of Mr. Y and the legends of the Phantom of the Opera, but I didn't care. I knew that everyone would be too scared to mess with him, and I really wanted him to hear Elaina and I perform his piece. He hadn't given me a formal reply to the invitation, but I didn't really give him a choice. I kissed him on the head once more and said, "It's at eight. Don't be late. I have to be there early, and I need to get ready. The address to the church is on the invitation."

I left him there and got ready. I slicked my hair back down and put on my black tux complete with white bow tie. I always remembered my father's rule about ties. White was always to be worn before black because black was less formal. I picked up the little leather bound notebook and rushed to the boat. I left my father there sitting at his desk and staring at the invitation. I didn't know if he would come, but I had to try. His music was going to be heard, and I wanted everyone to know the master that composed it.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18 Erik's POV

As I strode into the sanctuary of the old church, the sound of pattering voices ceased. Some looked at me with excitement exclaiming that it was Mr. Y. Others spat of my shoulders and called me the devil's spawn. I did not give the murmuring audience the attention that they so much wanted. Instead, I took a seat on an empty row towards the center of the chapel. I watched Gustave as he sat with his section in the choir and wrung his hands nervously. My mind immediately inferred that he was embarrassed by me, but I couldn't leave. I was too proud of him. I had to see him sing. I would make it up to him some other time.

Although, I was proud of my son's accomplishments, I couldn't help but cringe at the little things that the choir seemed to pay no mind to. There were two sopranos specifically that could not maintain a proper vowel. It made them sound out of tune compared to the rest of the children. By the last song, I found myself with a splitting headache. I couldn't tell if it was from the constant conclusions that I was drawing from their tuning issues or the issue in itself. Still, I applauded the choir with my gloved hands.

The choir had cleared to loft leaving only Gustave, his choir director, and the little girl that had approached him on the beach. Her skirt showed her ankles, and I did not approve. Still, if it meant that Gustave had friends, I supposed that I could allow it. Gustave stretched his fingers, hovered them over the keys, and nodded at his director.

"Now, I would like to introduce a special finale that will be performed by our very own Elaina Marion. She is accompanied by Gustave Yousefi, and the piece they are performing was unfortunately written by an anonymous composer. I still hope you enjoy it. I know you will," said the choir director. She went and took a seat in the front rows with her choir, and Gustave's fingers hit the keys with flying colors.

I felt my heart turn in my chest and my stomach fill with butterflies. I recognized the piece as soon as Gustave's fingers stroked the keys, and the composer was not anonymous. The little soprano girl sang his lyrics exceptionally. She was no Christine, but she showed an enormous potential. I immediately realized that piece was why Gustave wanted to come. I felt a familiar feeling in my chest as I took in the sound of his playing. It was the feeling that only Christine had brought to me in my earlier days. There was so much of her in him. Christine had given me so many gifts through the years, but Gustave was by far the best.

As he struck the last chord, my hands pounded against one another in applause. I felt a hot tear run down my left cheek. I stood to give my son and his new friend a standing ovation, and I found out that I wasn't the only one that decided that is what the duo deserved. Gustave's expression said it all. He was in a completely different world. He was lost in his music. The only thing that snapped him out of it was when the young girl threw her arms around him. Gustave jumped and blushed as his gaze suddenly met my tear filled eyes.

I didn't want him to be embarrassed, so I stepped outside and went to the shadows around the corner of the theatre. He met me out there with tears in his eyes. I could feel mine burn with them too. I pulled him close in a tight hug. I pulled my cloak around his shoulder and made sure that my hat was well adjusted over my face.

"So," I said casually, "Is that little girl your girlfriend?"

I could see that I had hit a sensitive subject. I saw the blood rise to his face as he blushed, "No, Papa. She's just a friend," he said timidly.

I gave him another hug. Just then as we passed an alley way, I noticed a group of boys possibly a little older than Gustave leaning up against the walls.

"Hey, Yousefi," said the tallest boy that was obviously their leader. "This masked man bothering you?" He had a heavy Italian accent.

"No! No!" exclaimed Gustave. "He was just walking me home."

"Yeah," said the boy slyly, "That's what they all say. I wouldn't want anyone hurting our school's new musical genius."

He was making an advance on me. He stopped right at my feet and looked me in the eyes. His breath smelled of alcohol, and he threw his cigarette on the ground. He was obviously too young to be involved in such amenities. He took off his jacket and threw it to one of his buddies.

"Don't you know that you shouldn't be messing with small boys, Devil Spawn?" said the boy.

The comment really didn't faze me, but it did Gustave. "Leave him alone!" my boy blurted suddenly.

"Why should I?" the Italian boy snapped. "He's worthless to the world."

"No he's not!" shouted Gustave.

"Gustave, take my cape and go home," I said to him soothingly as I handed him my cloak.

"No, not without you!" he yelled with new tears filling his eyes.

"Gustave, dammit, go!" I yelled, "Now!"

It took the poor boy by surprise, but I had gotten my point across. He went running around the corner of the building. With that, the Italian boy swung his fist. I dodged his punch with a quick step to the side and caught his fist. He looked up at me in shock, but he recovered quickly. He swung his other fist, and I caught that one too. I glared at him through my mask. He glared at me back. I was so busy trying to intimidate him that I didn't see the second boy sneak up behind me. He hit me right in the nose. I did not dare swing back. I knew that was what they wanted.

I reached up to find my nose gushing sticky red liquid right on time for the third boy to hit me in the gut, and I fell to the ground. Next thing I knew, I tall, slim figure pounced on the Italian boy's back. The other two were beating the living day out of him, but he still held on until he had the bully pinned to the ground. He kicked the other two in their groins without ever letting go of the other one.

"Don't mess with my father," snapped the slim figure. Then, he lifted the boy's head by the hair and smashed it in the ground. It was Gustave. He hadn't gone home like I had asked. "Take Lucca home, and don't let him go out of his apartment until he's his usual sober self," said Gustave to the other two boys. They pulled the boy that I assumed was Lucca up by the shoulders and dragged him down the sidewalk. Gustave reached down and helped me up. The bruises on my gut hurt like hell.

"I'm getting too old for this," I said rubbing where my head had hit the ground. "Did you know those boys?"

"I knew one of them," said Gustave. "He was so nice just the other day, but then again, he was sober. I know you told me to go home, but I couldn't just let them do anything to you."

I rubbed the back of his neck lovingly. "It's okay," I said. "Your old man isn't as strong as he used to be."

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed, "You're just as strong as ever! You're in your prime!" Gustave was teasing me. I couldn't help but smile. As he stepped into the light, I noticed his nose was also bloodied. He had a bit of blood running down the side of his temple along with a black eye.

"Come on," I said, "Let's go home and get cleaned up. Tomorrow is Friday. Maybe, I can allow you to just stay home this time. I think it might be better that you don't face those boys tomorrow. Plus, your teacher may wonder how you go that black eye, and I don't want to have to go up there and explain."

Gustave agreed without argument. I could see sleep starting to take over what was the light in his eyes. I wrapped my cape around us both, and we walked home.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 Gustave's POV

I woke up unusually early the next morning, and I decided to take a stroll around the park before it opened. The sun had not risen quite yet, and Phantasma was generally quiet. A few workers were already out running errands, but other than that, there was really no movement to be seen. I decided to go out and walk along the pier. I hung myself over the edge like Father had that night, and I felt the salty air whisk about my face. I could almost understand why Miss Giry wanted to just jump in that night. It was almost like the sea beckoned you to come. I pulled myself up and sat on the pier where I had last seen my mother. I liked to go out to the pier on occasion. Since Mother was still legally married to the Vicomte when she had died, her body was sent back to France where, I can only assume, the Vicomte buried her. The pier was the closest thing that I had a grave. My eyes started tearing up. I missed Mother so terribly. I couldn't help it. I had to talk to her, so I did.

"Mother," I said, "I wish you could have been at the concert last night. I have made a new friend. Her name is Elaina. She's beautiful, and she sings beautifully. She reminds me of you. Oh, and Father actually came. You should have seen the tears in his eyes as I played. I almost wanted to cry right there with him. He's been good to me. You were right to love Papa. I may not understand everything that you did, but I understand that. He's the man that I can only hope to be. Last night, we got jumped by a few boys. Oh, don't worry about us, neither of us really got hurt. Anyways, Father didn't even hit them back. He just stood there and took it. I punched them though. I am terribly guilty about it, but I couldn't let them just hurt Papa. I wish you could have been here to see me grow up. I'm almost as tall as Papa now. I'm not quite as strong though. I will be one day. Papa said that this summer he was going to teach me all about the park, well, what I don't already know about it. Like, how the rides work, and how his inventions work. Oh, and Mother, you should have seen me! I learned how to swim! Papa taught me! I was scared at first, but he helped me. Mother, I miss you terribly. I wish you were here with me." I got up to go back to the aerie before Papa realized that I was gone. "Oh, and I almost forgot, I love you, Mother."

I turned to find a crying Meg Giry leaning on the post on the other side of the pier. I had not really spoken to her since the accident. Occasionally, she would ask me to give my father a note, and sometimes, I saw her in the shows. I had never really noticed how much she had changed. Her once flowing blonde hair had been cut to go just barely past her shoulders. The light that used to be in her blue eyes was gone. It had been replaced by dark, tired looking bags under her eyelids. She looked older. She was still a very beautiful lady, but not in the same way she used to be. She looked more distinguished as opposed to just having a youthful glow. Standing on the pier with her made my heart race as I thought about what happened last time that we had both been standing in the exact same place.

"My, Gustave" she said as she was wiping the tears from her eyes, "look at how you've grown!"

I swallowed what felt like a lump in my throat. "What are you doing here?"

"Gustave, you have every right to be angry with me. You really do, but please, don't make me go away."

"I'm not. I just wanted to know what you were doing here."

"Gustave, your Mother and I grew up together. She was my best friend. I can't express to you how just how much I regret what I did."

I didn't know how to reply. I continued to stand there and look at her.

"You don't have to be nervous," she said. "I never even intended to hurt anyone but myself the first time. There is no way on Earth that I would hurt you now. Plus, like you said, didn't Erik teach you how to swim?"

I nodded, but I didn't say anything. I didn't take my eyes off of her. I didn't quite know what I was feeling towards her. It wasn't hate. I wasn't really scared of her. I wasn't angry with her. After all, it had been an accident. I suppose that I just didn't know what to say. What was I supposed to say?

"Oh, you hate me!" she yelled. "I knew that you did!"

I shook my head rapidly and looked at her with intent eyes.

She smiled. "You're a man of few words. You're growing up to be just like your Father."

"I'm proud of that," I said.

"That's good," she said. "You should be. Your mother would be proud of that too."

"Do you really think so?"

That's when Miss Giry did the unexpected. She walked to the other edge of the pier and wrapped me in a hug. "I know so," she said soothingly. "She loved your father like no one could ever love another person. She loved you that way too, Gustave."

"Miss Giry," I said, "May I ask you a personal question?"

"Gustave, I believe that I owe you that much."

"Did you love Papa?"

She sighed. "Look at you. You're almost a man now. You're already wiser than any man I know. Gustave, I suppose that I didn't. I most certainly didn't love him like your mother did. At one time, yes, I thought so, but the way your mother looked at him was so much different than the way I did. Besides, he didn't love me back. It would have done no good. I suppose that I just wanted the attention. I was jealous. I shouldn't have been. Look where it led."

I nodded. I understood what she meant.

"Why did you want to know, Gustave?"

"I don't really know," I replied. "There's just so much that I don't understand. There are so many things that I would like to ask my mother. I love Papa, but I can't talk to him about certain things like I could my mother." I sat back down on the edge of the pier, and Miss Giry sat down alongside me.

"What kind of things?"

I down casted my eyes. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to talk to Miss Giry about all of this, but when I turned it over in my mind, I didn't see what it could hurt. Mother had trusted this lady for some reason. Maybe she wasn't all bad.

"I mean like just things normal kids go through. I could ask Papa, but you and I both know that he didn't exactly grow up like a normal child."

Miss Giry smiled at that and nodded. "This is true, Gustave. Is there something at school that's bothering you?"

I looked up at the sky and imagined what my mother was doing right at that second. The sun was starting to rise. "I don't really fit in," I told Miss Giry.

"I see. Are the other kids mean to you?"

"No, not exactly. They just don't talk to me. I used to try to talk to them, but it really didn't do any good. There was one boy that seemed pretty nice, but he was drunk last night. And, well, he did this," I said, and I lifted the brim of my hat so she could see my black eye.

Her hands grabbed both sides of my face. "Oh, Gustave, you poor dear, what happened?"

"I don't really know. Papa and I were walking home, and he more or less just jumped us. He started punching Papa, and I hit him to make him stop."

"Have you put something on it?"

"Papa made me hold some ice to it last night."

"That's good. Anyway, back to what's happening at school," she said.

I stood back up. "You really don't have to do this, Miss Giry."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have to make anything up to me. I don't blame you. It was all an accident. I forgave you a long time ago. You don't have to pretend to like me."

She stood and wrapped me in another hug. "Oh, but Gustave, I do like you. You are the son of my child hood best friends. It seems strange, but I feel like I should get to know you better. I feel like you and I are practically family. You seem like a good kid. There's no doubt in my mind that you are. I care about you."

That came as a shock to me. "You were friends with Papa as a child too?"

She smiled. "Yes, Gustave. My mother raised your mother, your father, and me. We all grew up together all though your father was a bit older than your mother and I."

I couldn't help but smile at the thought of the three of them growing up in the noisy Paris opera house together. Miss Giry knew my mother better than anyone besides maybe my father. I decided to give her a chance.

"I need to go before Papa realizes that I'm gone," I told Miss Giry.

She looked hurt. I could only hope that she didn't think that I was rejecting her. I turned to leave.

"Gustave!" she called after me. "I come here every morning if you ever need to talk."

I waved back at her. "I might just have to take you up on that offer," I said, and I saw the biggest smile wipe across Miss Giry's face.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20 Erik's POV

**Ok, question time! I have a third LND fanfic on stand-by. This one is in Christine's POV. Let me know if you would be interested in reading it. – E.B.**

I spent the day teaching Gustave about all of the mechanics to all of my greatest inventions. He had seemed so excited about learning the trade just earlier that week, but he seemed to be distant that day. I asked him if something was going on, but he never answered me. It wasn't like him to keep to himself unless he was extremely upset.

"Gustave, you're worrying me," I said. "Tell me what the matter is."

"Nothing's the matter, Papa. I'm right as rain," he answered smiling.

"Then what's gotten into you, my boy? You seem so distant."

He wiped the grease off of his hands from the machine he was working on and kissed my unmasked cheek like he did when he was a small boy. "I think you're just becoming a cranky old man," he teased.

I sighed. "Your old man has always been cranky, but this isn't me being irritable. This is me being worried about my only son. Now tell me. What's gotten into you?"

"I just miss Mother," he said looking down at his feet. "I know we haven't talked about her in a while, but I just miss talking to her. She understood things. I wish I had her to give me advice."

"Gustave, you know I'm always here if you need to talk about something," I said as I clasped his shoulder.

He exhaled another sigh. "I know you are. It's just that you never went to school or had a girlfriend or did normal things. I love you terribly, Papa, but it just doesn't feel right asking you."

My own flesh and blood had denied me. True, he was correct. I hadn't led the most conventional life, but it still hurt that he felt like he couldn't tell me about what he was having so much trouble with. "Gustave, I know that I never had those experiences, but I am your father. Your best interests are in my heart. I may not give you the most conventional advice, but I do know what's best for you. It's your choice to take my guidance or not. What's the harm in simply asking?"

"You're right," he said sadly. "I'm sorry, Papa."

Even though he had hurt my feelings, I didn't' want to make him think that he had upset me when it was really just a quick shock to the heart. "There's nothing to be sorry about, my boy."

"Papa, I composed a song."

"That's wonderful!" I said still fooling with the gears in my machine. "Could you hand me that wrench, son?"

He did as I asked. "It's just, I had this burst of inspiration, and I really think that it's the best thing that I've composed."

"Is that right? Well, if this inspiration is keeping you so occupied, then I think you should keep it around."

"Really? But what if she decides she doesn't want me around?"

I knew this day was coming, and I had to admit that I had rather dreaded the thought. "She?" I couldn't help but smile as I saw his cheeks turn a pale shade of red. "So this new inspiration is a girl huh?"

He nodded timidly.

"Well," I said, "Believe it or not, your old man does have a bit of experience on that topic."

He gave me a half smile. "Then, can you give me your advice?" he said mockingly.

"I will not."

He looked at me with a mask of anger and confusion across his face.

"I'm going to tell you what I think your mother would tell you."

Gustave smiled. "I hadn't even thought of that. If I wanted even a hint of Mother's advice, it would come from you. You did know her best."

His comment saddened me. In my mind I never knew her enough. I pulled out the little journal that Meg had given me out of my pocket. I turned to one of my favorite entries and read it out loud. "His words were correct. Fear can turn to love. I didn't see it at first, but now I know that I love him deeply. I should have looked behind the mask he wore called a horrible temper. Deep down, he was a fine man. I regret more than anything that I didn't stay with him that night, but he let me go. I didn't want him to. He told me to leave, so I felt compelled to. If only he could know how much it broke my heart to know that he didn't need me by his side."

"How is that advice?"

"My boy, that is advice that I should have taken. If you love this girl, then don't you ever for a second let her think that you don't need her. Trust me, if you love her, you'll need her. Don't let her slip through your fingers, and more importantly, if life gives you second chance, don't make the same mistake twice."

"I think I understand. Now onto the next question."

"Which is?"

"How do I tell her?"

I laughed. "Well, don't kidnap her, kill anyone, or force her into marriage. Those are all bad roads to turn down."

"I think that's a given one, Papa."

"Oh, really?"

"Wait a minute. Don't tell me that you did all three of those things."

I nodded with a mischievous smile spread across my face.

"You're terrible," he said as he wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at me.

I sighed. "I know, my son. I know."

It was beginning to get hot in the tower where we were working. I unbuttoned my shirt to let my skin breathe while I was sanding down an old board for a project that we were constructing.

"Papa, where did you get those scars," Gustave asked sheepishly.

"Pardon?" I said not sure if I had heard him correctly.

"The scars upon your chest, where did you get them?" he said a little louder.

"It's not important."

"Oh, no you don't!" he said. "I just told you something that I didn't really want to share. Now it's your turn!"

I knew that I would lose the battle if I tried to fight it. He folded his arms like Christine used to do when she was irritated and put a pouty look on his face.

"Fine," I said. "Do you remember me telling you a long time ago that I used to be a part of a gypsy circus?"

He thought about it for a second and then nodded.

"Well, people didn't just pay to see a boy sit in a cage. They called me the Devil's Spawn, so it was only appropriate that they did something to make it seem like that kind of attraction."

"What did they do to you?"

"Most of these scars are from a leather whip. Some of them are from being beaten, but that's not necessarily from the gypsy circus. Oh, except that one," I said pointing to a little scar just to the side of my abdomen. "That's something completely different."

I could tell that Gustave was slightly uncomfortable with knowing what I had gone through. "What was that one from?" he asked pointing to one of the scars that was shaped differently than the whip scars.

"Ah, that's from that blasted Italian boy the other night. He could give a nasty blow."

Gustave smiled at that. "What about the one that you pointed out?"

I could feel my face turn red as I remembered what brought along the little scar. "Your mother caused that one."

"How?" he asked innocently.

"You don't want to know."

He suddenly realized what I meant. He wouldn't meet my eyes. "You're right. I really don't want to know."

I laughed and ruffled his hair. "You've been working awfully hard today," I said. "How about we take a break and go get something good to eat?"

He nodded eagerly. I could hear his stomach growl from where I was standing.

"Go wash up," I said. "I'll meet you in the aerie. Be thinking about what would taste good to you."

He did what he was told, and I cleaned up my little workshop. Before I went back home, I pulled Christine's little journal out of my pocket once more. I gazed at the old photograph of her that was pinned to its cover. I stroked her cheek with my fingertips. "He's stubborn like you," I said smiling, "but he also has your good heart." I pressed her picture to my lips and tried to remember what the real thing felt like once. It was good to look back from time to time.


End file.
